


The Front

by Liquid_Lyrium



Series: To Walk a Crooked Mile [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Humor, Artificial Intelligence, Autistic Satya "Symmetra" Vaswani, Background Brigitte Lindholm/Hana "D.Va" Song - Freeform, Canon Autistic Character, F/F, Flashbacks, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Healing, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jesse McCree was left-handed, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Past Genji Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Past Relationship(s), Post-Recall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Redemption, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smoking, Some Humor, Starting Over, Touch-Starved, sensory issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: Jesse McCree wasn't going to rejoin Overwatch. No sir. He'd learned his lesson the first go around. At least that was the plan.Being on his own turned out to be more than he could handle, so back he crawled, tail between his legs. Where else does he have to go but back to the home that fell apart and tore him to pieces the first time around? What else does he have but the work he's done his whole life? He's survived worse.But is it enough just to survive?





	1. Ghosts and devils come a-calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree finds himself back in the last place he expected to be. Chased down by old shadows, he's come back. It remains to be seen if he's returned home.

**[March 11, 2055]**

Crouching between the treads of a tank and a concrete wall, Jesse can see freedom.

Freedom is the sliver of sky wrapped in barbed wire at the top of a twenty foot high wall. Jesse looks up, but he doesn’t lean from his position. It’s critical he doesn’t leave the all-seeing camera’s blind spot until absolutely necessary. He keeps low, crawling along the side of the tank. He hitches his bag up his shoulders, tightening the straps. He fishes out a pair of gloves from his boots and slides them over his hands. Jesse holds his breath as the sound of thousands of micro hooks scrape against the wall from where he’d carelessly brushed his fingertips.

His heartbeat is the only thing he hears for several minutes, his knees and back start to burn under the stress of being half-crouched and unmoving.

Only a minute after he is sure he’s alone does Jesse act.

He runs at the wall, ignoring the fact it is sheer and just a little over three times his height. That’s what makes this plan so good. They’ll never think he’ll try this. Jesse leaps at the last possible second. His hands have enough purchase to stick to the wall with the stolen tech, and he wedges his toes against the wall to push up with all his might and desperation. One of his feet slips and he curses as his chin hits concrete, teeth snapping together in his skull. Jesse doesn’t dare stop, however, he can already feel one of his hands threatening to give way. They aren’t designed to hold a man’s full weight more than a few seconds at a time. He scrambles to pull himself upwards, arms straining, the joints in his shoulder making their presence known in a way that drills and training never seem to. He’s too desperate and out of breath to fall into any sort of rhythm as he throws his arms above his head.

Both feet lose purchase and this time Jesse feels his heart plummet out of his chest as he has the alarming realization he doesn’t know how far off the ground he is, nor does he care to know, as he does his best to claw the wall with his toes. His stomach and his heart are next as he hears the sound of a hand detach from the wall—not unlike Velcro.

A much worse sensation follows. A meaty hand grasps him by the scruff of the neck, and there’s a pull. Jesse watches in mild dismay as his sweaty hand slides out of the other glove in slow motion, and then there’s nothing but a blur of color as he falls. When he finally lands with a thud, Gabriel Reyes is standing over him.

“Nice try, kid. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think you’d given up the ghost just ‘cuz you’ve been good for a couple months.”

Jesse clenches his teeth in lieu of an answer, his back throbbing with pain.

“Gérard will be happy to have his gloves back, I’m sure. Might need some repair now that you’ve subjected them to conditions outside their usual working parameters. Christ Jesse, you could have at least taken the boot grips to go with them. These things cost money.”

Jesse stays silent.

“By the way, speaking of money, Jack would like his cards back. I assume those are in the bag? Pretty ballsy, stealing from the strike commander’s wallet like that. I should ask, as a matter of security, how the _fuck_ did you get the code to his room?”

Jesse smirks. He can’t help it. Not when it comes to getting one up on Morrison. “Easy as pie. Just entered in the date the two of you got enlisted into SEP together. Willing to bet my left nut at least one of those cards in my bag has yer birthday for the PIN number. Tell Morrison to retake the compliance course on security.”

Reyes doesn’t miss a beat, “That date isn’t public.”

“That’s when your searchable records end. Took me a bit to put two and two together, but it ain’t good if a dumbass like me can figure it out.”

Gabriel sighs and rubs his forehead, as though hoping to massage away his problems. “Dios mio. Jesse, what am I going to do with you?”

“Lemme go?” Reyes lets out a single laugh.

“Tempting, but not this time. Not today. You planning on getting up?”

“I’m just fine where I am.” Pain is radiating all throughout his back now, and McCree doesn’t dare show weakness in front of his commander. Better to be lazy than weak. Reyes considers him for what feels like several minutes, before rubbing the back of his neck.

“Look, Jesse this is getting old. You gotta decide what you want out of life. If you want to rot in a jail cell, that’s fine. We have those. You want to go die in prison that’s on you. I’ll tell you this though,” Reyes fixes his dark gaze down on Jesse and, as brawny as he’s become with good nutrition and military training, McCree feels like a twig laying beneath super soldier Gabriel Reyes. “Next time you run, I'm not gonna stop you and bring you back. And you better hope we never meet on the field of battle if that happens, cause I won't hesitate to shoot you. I like you mijo, and I think it’s cute that you want the attention, but I can't help you if you don't want it. And frankly, I don't have that kind of time to waste.”

“Don’t recall asking for your help,” Jesse looks away, unable to bear the man's gaze any more.

“You bought my meal ticket, kiddo. You want to risk getting caught and jumped by all the friends you put away? Like I said, be my guest.” Gabe gestures towards the wall. Jesse follows the sweep of his arms and sees the one glove left behind, still stuck to the wall. At least fifteen feet off the ground. He swallows, palms suddenly sweaty.

Reyes has probably just saved him a broken leg or worse.

“Anyway, don’t make your decision now. Think about it for a night at least. You can have a future, Jesse. Thing is, you gotta want it. That’s got nothing to do with Overwatch, Jack, or me. That’s all on you.”

With that, Reyes stands over him and extends his hand.

***

**[May 1, 2072]**

Jesse bolted upright with a gasp, like a drowning man breaking the surface of a lake. He half stumbled, half-leaped out of his bed, gun in hand. In the same moment the lights immediately flared on, temporarily blinding him.

_ <Are you all right, agent McCree?> _

McCree rubbed his thumb against his eyes, taking in the half-familiar settings. He blinked a few times.

“Yeah… yeah. Just dreamin’, that’s all.”

_ <If you would like to discuss the nature of your dream, I would be willing to listen.> _

“Pff. No thanks. ‘Preciate the gesture and all darlin’, but no thanks.” _As if I need what’s in my noggin’ logged in the official Overwatch archives._ “Just a lot of rusty, dusty memories is all.”

_ <If you change your mind, I am here.> _

“I'll be sure to remember that.” Jesse set Peacekeeper aside. It took him a moment but he untangled himself and threw the thin covers back on the bed. McCree padded over to the window. He punched a switch on the wall and the shutter covering the window pulled back. Another flick below that and the window slid open.

It was dark outside. Sunrise was several hours off. The pervasive odor of brine filled his nostrils.

In the old days, McCree would have just stuck his head out the window for a smoke, but Athena was apparently programmed to be an all-seeing nag, and he’d hear nothing but grief from Dr. Ziegler if did that again. There was a soft, quiet hiss from above as he poked his head into the night air, which quickly broke into a high pitched _reet-reet-reet-reet_ that increased in pitch and speed.

McCree groaned and pulled his head back in the window, closing it once more with the press of a switch. The blackout shutters were a creature comfort he’d forgotten he missed in the years since he left. Given that agents could be called to action at any time, or be suffering from jet lag at any given moment, the ability to block out all natural light was a godsend.

“Athena. How much longer those damn birds got before they hatch something?” _Might as well make use of the all-seeing intelligence, right?_

_ <I estimate about another three weeks, based on the typical merlin incubation period. You are fortunate, Agent McCree. The pair in this nest seemed to have started slightly earlier than most of their fellows.> _

“Ain’t my fault they squatted above reclaimed quarters. Matter of fact, they should count themselves lucky whoever made their nest ain’t come back for it too.”

_ <My sensors indicate that they had taken up residence before your arrival, Agent McCree. You were advised—> _

“That what you call talking at someone who’s half-dead and half-asleep?” Jesse tuned out whatever melodious rejoinder the computer had for him.

McCree may not have been _aware_ that there was a nest of merlins on the roof above his window when he picked out his quarters, but he would be damned if he was going to be kicked out of his room by some fucking birds. Especially since these birds seemed to have reclaimed the most precarious roost imaginable. McCree had already returned a—miraculously unbroken—egg that had spilled out of the nest.

This selfless action had not endeared him to the residents at all. He glanced at the stitches on his thumb made of flesh.

 _Ungrateful bastards._ “Well the building my old room was in don’t have power right now, so they’ll have to fuckin’ deal.” Jesse trudged over to his dresser and pulled a bottle of whiskey out from under his jeans. _Whiskey sour’d be good right about now. Shame I only got a third of the fixin’s._

Jesse pulled a shot glass off the neck of a bourbon bottle sitting on top of his dresser.

He traced his thumb over the honeybee on the label and poured out a measure of sunshine to chase the shadows away.

The whiskey burned hot and brilliant as it went down, like a sunbeam.

His metal thumb sounded like a whetstone on a blade as it traced the edge of the shot glass. McCree poured another shot. “Hey, ‘Thena?”

_ <Yes, Agent McCree?> _

“The dark don’t bother me. If I have a nightmare like that, you can keep the lights off. Or at least don’t throw ‘em all the way on like that.”

_ <Very well, Agent McCree. I will remember that for the future.> _

McCree barked out a husky laugh, throat rough from that liquid sunshine.

_As if you could forget._

\----

Unlike the Overwatch of old, McCree did not have to be awake at any given time. Not yet, at least. He rolled out of bed sometime around ten thirty in the morning. Jesse debated skipping a shower, just because he didn’t feel like it, but he decided he might as well. It had been awhile since he’d stayed somewhere with reliable hot water.

Evidently, it had still been awhile because when Jesse put his hand under the water after a few minutes it was ice cold.

“ _Por Dios!_ Winston, how you live in these conditions?”

Jesse took a much abbreviated shower and reattached his prosthetic arm. Just one more thing that was different from the old days. He was thankful that the ice-cold water didn’t seem to trigger that burning sensation where his arm no longer was.

This morning, anyway.

McCree slid into jeans and a plaid button up shirt. The loss of his arm was still fresh, but fortunately McCree had always been a bit ambidextrous. He had always favored his left hand, though, and he was still coming to terms with losing it. He was learning how to live with his prosthetic mostly by trial and error as well.

An unexpected advantage of retrofitting his trophy from some Deadlock dirtbag meant that it looked older and more weathered. So far everyone else seemed to take his appearance at face value and assume the injury had happened years ago. Somewhere on the winding, misbegotten road Jesse had picked out for himself.

Angela was the only one who knew how recent it was.

So far, Dr. Ziegler had not broken her confidence as a physician, which Jesse was grateful for.

He wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

He swore under his breath as a tiny button squirmed away from his too-large metal fingers. He’d spent every last dime in Joel Morricone’s bank account on medical attention the moment he’d gotten somewhere halfway civilized. Even questionable, black market nanites had pretty remarkable healing properties. The past thirty-odd days had been spent trying to stumble through self-directed physical and occupational therapy, pushing through phantom pains, and pulling on his memories of Genji’s recovery in an attempt to survive and function.

At least he’d be looked after here.

McCree finally finished with his buttons, pulled his serape down over his shoulders, and stuck his favorite hat on his head.

He still knew the way to the kitchens. While there was an industrial cafeteria on base, there were also a few smaller kitchens scattered around every Overwatch base. Generally they were for officers, specialized task forces, and those whose foods couldn’t be mixed with others for medical or religious reasons. Gibraltar didn’t have as many as some of the other bases. It was just a watch point, after all.

Right now the officer’s kitchen was the only working facility. Plenty big enough for the skeleton crew that had taken up residence.

McCree hadn’t planned on being one of them.

The automatic door slid open as Jesse approached the kitchen. He grunted at Torbjörn in greeting, not really expecting a reply as the man’s nose was about three inches from the pages of a thick engineering tome. He had aged relatively well in McCree’s opinion. He certainly hadn’t come out of the breakdown any worse for wear.

McCree was half-tempted to let Torb look at his arm. He’d had it adjusted on the road a few times, but it could probably stand another adjustment now that he was getting real medical treatment and the swelling wasn’t varying quite so wildly anymore.

Hell, Torb would probably build him a new arm if he asked, just for the fun of it.

McCree flipped the oven on to preheat, though he belatedly realized that Athena probably could have done that for him. He pulled out a cheap ramekin from the cupboard and sprayed it liberally with cooking oil. If he didn’t have an audience—despite how inattentive his current one was—he would have taken the extra time to grease it with butter.

He felt justified in his choice as Pharah strolled in, a mug in hand. She had changed quite a bit since Jesse had last seen her, and in more ways than just getting a tattoo. Clearly she had been having a productive morning training because she had an active-wear crop top underneath a looser tank top that read “Suns Out Guns Out” and some kind of psychedelically patterned leggings that almost hurt to look at.

_Kids these days with their fashion._

“Hey there sleepyhead. How’s my favorite cowboy?”

McCree put on an easy smile that was only a little false. He _was_ glad to see Fareeha. “Aw you know, slugger. Just getting my bearings still. Jet lag is mostly done. Just pure laziness now.” McCree fished out a bowl of homemade salsa from the fridge and an egg. The salsa he had made the day before. He doled out a couple spoonfuls into the ramekin, suddenly aware of how ravenous he was as the potent aroma suddenly hit his nostrils. “Hey, would you be a dear? See if we got any cheese in there. An’ some onions. Green ones if we have ‘em.”

“What is breakfast without cheese?” Jesse chuckled, and fished a knife out of a drawer. Pharah bent down and surveyed the fridge with all the intensity of a general inspecting her troops.

“You’re in luck. Green onions and… uh… ‘Artesano Mahón’? Whatever. It’s cheese.” Pharah placed them both on the edge of the counter for him. Jesse tipped the brim of his hat, flashing her a charming smile.

“Thank you kindly darlin’. It’s nice to have a helping hand.”

His smile wasn’t even the least bit fake as Fareeha laughed.

Jesse ran the onions under some water briefly before shaking them dry and setting them back on the counter. He grabbed his knife and lined up the greens, not bothering with a cutting board. He ignored Fareeha’s tuts and focused.

It was strange. Holding the knife but not _feeling_ it. Not exactly. There was feedback in his prosthesis, so he could sort of sense pressure, sense that there was an object in his hand. Was this too much pressure on the handle? Did he have enough strength to break it, if he wanted to? McCree slowly and deliberately began slicing, as though he weren’t just getting used to having metal fingers. Fortunately, he didn’t need too many onions for a single serving. His first instinct was to sweep the green flakes into his hand, but he realized that the logistics of that might not work so well. Stupid things might stick to his metal hand if he did that. Jesse scowled briefly and pinched them up between his fingers and sprinkled them into the ramekin. For the cheese, he held the grater in his left hand and held the cheese in his right.

Irritation kicked him in the chest like an angry bronco.

He _knew_ he was lucky. Lucky his own hack job hadn’t killed him. Lucky it hadn’t gotten infected. Lucky that he’d scrounged up enough change after seeing a “doctor” to have his trophy fitted decently to him. Lucky that modern medicine and prosthesis were so advanced that he could prepare breakfast a mere month after losing his limb, but all Jesse could see were a thousand inconveniences that would plague him the rest of his life.

Pharah passed behind him and went over to the coffee machine to refill her mug.

Jesse wrapped the cheese back up and picked up the egg. Moment of truth.

He hit the shell against the ramekin and used both thumbs to split the egg open.

“Ah _shit._ ”

McCree sighed. This was the worst possible outcome. Not only were the shell fragments in his breakfast, some of the egg whites had spilled over the edge. He tossed the empty shells into the sink and grabbed a paper towel taking care of the countertop first. After that he spent a good minute or two getting egg shells out of the ceramic container.

Pharah chuckled, now seated on a stool at the other side of the island.

McCree pointed a metal thumb still gleaming with egg white at her. “Don’t make me come over there, _manita_. Because I will.”

Pharah laughed again, but held up her hands in surrender. The threat of salmonella was apparently sufficient to keep the peace. “Alright.” The oven chimed happily at him, letting him know it had finished preheating.

McCree washed his hands, drying his prosthetic off thoroughly. He shook a bit of salt and pepper over the top of his egg and slid the ramekin on the middle rack without much care.

“Say Athena?”

_ <Yes, Agent McCree?> _

“Are you hooked up to that thing? Like if I ask you to set a timer for say fifteen minutes, would you let me know when my breakfast is ready?”

_ <I can both remind you to look at the oven in fifteen minutes as well as initiate a timer on the device itself, which would you prefer?> _

“How ‘bout you remind me in fifteen minutes if this timer ends up being busted as everything else around here?”

_ <Very well, Agent McCree.> _

Jesse chuckled once and set the timer manually. _I’ll have to remember that._

“I knew you’d come.” The casual declaration interrupted all thoughts of breakfast. McCree stiffened, and turned to face Pharah.

“Pardon?” He had his best _‘I’m an idiot who doesn’t understand you’_ face on.

Fareeha crossed her arms and leveled such a _look_ at him that it took every hard-trained instinct in him not to suck in a breath. _Christ, it’s like looking at a fucking ghost._

For just a moment, Ana Amari hadn’t been dead five years.

Torbjörn loudly closed his engineering manual, sparing Jesse from saying something stupid to Ana’s daughter. “Some of us thought y’were dead, considering you didn’t have the decency to call Winston back and tell him to fuck off.” Torb slid out of his chair and picked up his chipped _Ironclad_ mug. A relic even more ancient than Overwatch.

Jesse shrugged, and let a smile pull at his lips. “Well, you know me. Gotta make a big production out of everything. Can’t come back after five years without a fuss.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Pharah cut in “I knew it was only a matter of time before you came back. The old guard doesn’t know everything, right McCree?”

Jesse snorted lightly. “Some might say I _am_ the old guard at this point Fareeha.” It was a sobering thought. One that he was only too happy to push aside. Quickly and with prejudice.

“Whatever, things are going to be great, I just know it. Once we get this place a little more fixed up, it’ll be you and me in Overwatch, just like it was always meant to be!”

Jesse shook his head, but a smile played at his lips anyway. “Guess that’s true.”

Pharah gestured towards the counter that wrapped around the corner, towards a small runner with fresh green herbs sitting happily in the window, “They told me that it was stupid to plant for you. That you weren’t going to come back, that you’d washed your hands of everything for good, but we showed them, didn’t we Jesse?”

McCree leaned back on his heels, stepping aside without thought as Torbjörn moved towards the sink. “You planted that?”

Pharah shrugged. “Not all of it, but I made sure to add the coriander plant when I saw there wasn’t one. I didn’t see any lemon balm otherwise I would have planted that too.”

Jesse smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. “You always were a thoughtful kid. How could I stay away after that?” He stepped over to the little runner. It also held chives, basil, mint, and parsley. He ran the cilantro leaves between his fingers. He touched it with his metal hand too. There was nothing there. The feedback wasn’t substantial enough for the prosthetic to signal anything to his brain. McCree’s heart felt like it was clamped in a vise as he had a sudden vision of Fareeha standing over a withered cilantro plant, giving up on waiting for him at last. He blinked to clear the vision.

_Stupid. Fucking coward. Why don’t you tell her that you never intended to come back and all these old timers were right?_

Hell, most of the old timers here had never wanted Jesse the _first_ time around. Why should they be glad that he was back? Especially now that he was an actual criminal, and his rap sheet was was no longer a theoretical possibility being leveraged against him.

McCree placed his left thumb and forefinger at the base of a sprig and squeezed. The metal severed the stem neatly.

_Why don’t you tell her you weren’t ever gonna come back and break her heart? Would have been better if you’d died. Rotting in the ground is a decent excuse, at least._

Jesse pinched his brow, trying to stem the bad thoughts that were gathering like storm clouds. He had a brief thought of the sunshine whiskey tucked away in his drawer, but he shoved it back down. As if he were shoving the drawer closed and hiding the bottle again.

Stupid really, considering the amount of booze he had brazenly on display around his room.

Still, of all the things he’d been laid low by in the past, a fucking plant was not on the list. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Pharah placed a hand on his back.

“Jesse? You okay?” She looked worried. Again, her expression was the spitting image of Ana.

“Yeah, I’m fine darlin’ just got a headache. Be better after I get some food and coffee into me,” Jesse flashed Fareeha a smile. “I appreciate what you did. You know I ain’t happy without fresh cilantro on my plate. Good o’ you to remember that.” He pulled her into a quick half-hug. As he did that, McCree realized how fucking _long_ it had been since he had touched another human being, much less hugged someone else.

Pharah chuckled and gave him a squeeze in return, “Someday you’ll join the rest of the civilized world and call it coriander.”

He was tempted to linger, but he didn’t want to worry Pharah more than she already was, so he let her go and headed over to fish a mug out of an overhead cabinet for himself. “Not likely.”

From the corner of his eye, McCree studied Pharah quietly, taking stock of how tall she’d gotten, the difference in step now that she had proper military training. Her short, sensible haircut. Her mother's tattoo.

It wasn’t like he’d _forgotten_ about Pharah all these years. Hell, she was one of the few people he’d ever called after leaving, infrequent as it was.

It was only… Jesse hadn’t considered the possibility that someone might be waiting for him after the recall. He had been surprised to see Winston's video, but just as eager to close it and set the past to one side.

Overwatch had been gone before Pharah had the chance to join in the past. He hadn’t even thought there was a chance she would hear about or answer Winston’s recall.

Jesse McCree had never, in his life, counted on being wanted.

\----

Genji was pleased to find McCree awake and cognizant at a reasonable hour. He was looking forward to spending time with him again. He had given the man a bit of time to settle in, but he was also looking forward to introducing McCree to his master, Zenyatta. While Zenyatta was not part of the recall, he had accompanied Genji for support. There was an important task ahead of him—amends that he needed to make—and he was grateful that Zenyatta was willing to make sure he saw it through.

Genji set that thought aside as he approached the kitchen. Through the filters in his mask, he could smell something spicy and yolky. While McCree would claim he was not a cook or a chef, the dishes in the man’s repertoire were always tasty and usually full of flavor and spice.

When they enter the room, Pharah was at the sink, rinsing out her mug. McCree was sitting on a stool at the island, bent over some small dish, shoveling some egg-concoction into his mouth. The sight of McCree’s posture brought back childhood memories. Being reprimanded not to eat like a dog, to bring his bowl to his face, not the other way around. The constant berating and comparisons to his brother’s superior manners.

“So stingy McCree. Here I was hoping for some huevos rancheros. Think about the rest of us next time.”

McCree sat upright immediately, fork still in mouth. “Eh. Di’n’t feel like going all out. S’ry.” He caught the way McCree’s eyes slid towards his master. Even among other omnics, his master was… unusual in his means of propulsion and appearance. While Mondatta had been a public figure, he ambulated on two feet. Zenyatta eschewed such method of transportation whenever possible—which was most of the time.

“Ah, McCree, allow me to introduce you to my master. Tekhartha Zenyatta.”

“Greetings,” Zenyatta gave McCree a perfunctory, circular wave with his hand.

“Tekhartha? As in Tekhartha Mondatta?” Genji could just about guarantee McCree was tagging Zenyatta’s appearance for Shambali iconography.

“Correct,” there was little inflection to Zenyatta’s voice. Even Genji couldn’t tell what sort of feelings the name brought up in his master.

“My condolences.”

“Thank you,” Zenyatta linked his fingers together comfortably in his lap. “We all feel Mondatta’s absence greatly. I fear it may be some time before we collect ourselves to meaningfully continue his work. His loss was… quite unexpected.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” McCree looked like he instantly regretted his words.

 _“McCree!”_ Genji was appalled. McCree could be crass and crude, certainly, but the McCree he remembered had at least _heard_ of a thing called manners.

“Jesus, sorry. That was outta line.” McCree pinched his brow with his metal hand. He pulled it away a second later and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with the fingers made of flesh and bone. “Haven’t really had a conversation in awhile.”

“There is no need to apologize. The deception was mine. To call Mondatta’s murder simply a loss is dishonest. One should not apologize for the truth.”

“Well, how ‘bout I apologize for how I said the truth then?” McCree’s head was half-ducked and a sheepish sort of smile spread across his face. The man had even placed his hat on his chest in a gesture of apology.

“I think that is acceptable,” Zenyatta sounded vaguely amused, which made Genji relax slightly.

“Uh, not to put my foot in it a second time, but do you do pronouns or what? I know some of ya’ll aren’t keen on ‘em.” McCree righted his hat back onto his head.

“I appreciate the consideration. I prefer to be known as ‘he’ or ‘him.’ While I do not identify with the human notion of a gender, I appreciate the innate sense of personhood and respect which comes from the use of such language. I have also found the acceptance or reluctance to use such pronouns a reasonable insight into an individual’s opinions on omnic rights and autonomy. There is a Bastion unit on the base as well which does not have a preference or interest concerning such conventions.”

“We got a _Bastion unit here?”_

“Yes, an E54. Have you not seen?” Genji supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Jesse had barely been awake the past couple days, and at the oddest hours when he was.

“Man. That’s a blast from the past. Well don’t let Torb meet ‘em by their lonesome.”

“Torbjörn brought them here.” McCree looked like he was about ready to fall off the stool.

“Get the _fuck_ out of here. You’re shittin’ me.”

“No! I’m not! Bastion is usually out gardening. They’ve been very helpful in relocating the wildlife that has taken over the watch point, from what I understand.”

“That’s gotta be an interesting story. Have to ask Torb about that later,” Jesse resumed wolfing down his self-contained egg concoction.

“Can’t be half as interesting as the story behind your arm. Honestly McCree, I thought we talked about this. You were supposed to stay intact.” It did pain Genji to know that his friend had suffered after they parted ways.

McCree suddenly took his time to politely chew and swallow the food in his mouth, which surprised Genji. The man seemed ravenous just a second ago.

“Well, you know. Was jealous of all that attention you used to get, back in the day. Figured I’d start small and work my way up to your status.” Genji laughed, McCree merely smiled at him, lips pressed together to hide his teeth.

“The new arm suits you, at least. Very gangster.”

“Goes along with my bounty,” McCree laughed shortly, pushing his breakfast away.

“Now _that_ I must know about. What did you to to get such a price on your head, McCree?”

“Oh, bit o’ this, a bit of that.” McCree smirked at him over a coffee mug with the insignia of the Overwatch Communication Division’s 28th recruitment wave.

“McCree,” Genji groaned, and rolled his entire head to let Jesse know he was rolling his eyes.

“Play vigilante long enough, you get people mad at you.” It was irritating how evasive McCree was being.

“You are the _worst_ McCree. So stingy. You know my whole life’s story, and you will not even give me a _hint_ of who you pissed off to put such a price on your head.”

“I’m a man o’ mystery now, get used to it. Unless you wanna put money on a guess of when I lost this arm?” McCree sat up, eyes alight at the prospect of a good bet. Or more accurately _taking in a sucker_ , as he always said. Genji chuckled.

“Four years isn’t _quite_ long enough for me to forget all the painful lessons you taught me about gambling. Another time, perhaps.” McCree settled back against the stool and took a good long look at Genji, and then Zenyatta.

“You know, there really is something different about you. Your seem… I dunno, lighter maybe? Good to see ya doin’ so well. This guy must really know his stuff, to make the Genji I knew so…happy.” McCree nodded his head at Zenyatta, gaze still fixed on Genji.

“I merely opened the path, Genji was the one who walked it and discovered what was inside himself.”

He was thankful for the face plate covering the flush on his cheeks. Genji felt an immense amount of pride, but it was a _little_ embarrassing. “Master, please…”

“Hey, ain’t no apologies for the truth around here, right Zen?” The combined laughter of McCree and Zenyatta filled the air, and for a moment Genji considered the possibility he had made a mistake. “But for real, you seem better than you ever were. Hang onto that.” McCree got to his feet, pushing in the stool behind him.

“If you need any guidance or assistance with your troubles Mister McCree, I would be happy to offer my assistance while I’m here.”

“Woah, Mister? Ain’t no call for that. Just McCree or Agent McCree is fine. Hell, even Jesse’s better than _Mister_.”

“My proposal still stands, Agent McCree. As one of my pupil’s oldest friends, I would hate to see you carry such heavy burdens without offering my assistance.” McCree looked taken aback, and his weight settled heavily on his back foot. Genji was just able to catch some sort of dark look between the initial consternation and the puzzled expression McCree offered in the next moment.

“Sorry? ‘Fraid I don’t comprende there, partner.”

“I sense there is something that is troubling you. Whether it is a matter of body, mind, or spirit, I cannot say, but I offer you my assistance gladly.” McCree’s eyes were the only thing that moved, flicking from his master’s faceplate to Genji’s. He had the most suspicious expression Genji had ever seen.

“Sorry there Zen Garden, fit as a fiddle over here, despite appearances to the contrary.” McCree smoothed away his suspicion into his easy charm.

_ <Your smoking and drinking does not contribute to your well being either.> _

McCree’s polite expression vanished into a scowl, “Listen, I respect ya’ll as people, but as you ain’t made of flesh and bone, you just can’t possibly understand the appeal of poisoning the only earthly home and vessel that carries you around. Unless there’s an omnic subculture that goes around infecting themselves with viruses for the fun of it that I’m not aware of.” There was, but Genji didn’t think that was so important right now.

“McCree are you certain you are all right?” Genji was unsure. It had been years since their last contact, but aside from the arm McCree didn't appear to be much changed.

“I’m fine! Didn’t even get hit at that little shootout on the train. Probably getting agitated cause o’ nicotine withdrawal tho, so excuse me while I go remedy that little burden of mine.” McCree’s shoulder brushed against his as the man walked past, the sound of spurs a familiar touchstone Genji had forgotten he’d missed. He waited until he could no longer hear the jangle of metal.

He turned back to Zenyatta.

“Master, do you truly think there is something wrong with McCree?” Worry gnawed at his stomach—an organ he still mostly had. He wasn’t sure what to make of McCree’s behavior. Was it just nicotine withdrawal, or had Zenyatta really struck a nerve? Genji had certainly seen darker moods brought on by the ebb and flow of McCree's habit over the years.

“Hm. I may have been mistaken, but his actions just now seem to suggest there may be something. Still, it was not my intention to push the matter. Healing and growth must be natural. A different kind of suffering is created when artifice is applied to the healing arts.“

Genji couldn’t help but smirk, “So modern medicine only creates suffering? I’ll remember that the next time I need painkillers.”

“Do not be obtuse, my fine pupil,” if Zenyatta had eyes, Genji had a feeling he’d be getting some serious side-eye right now, though he was able to catch the barest trace of amusement. His master’s voice reduced in volume,  “Besides, you certainly suffered in your journey, did you not?”

Evidently it was a day for hurtful truths, but Genji couldn’t deny it. It certainly wasn’t the most painful revelation he’d ever had. “That is quite true.”

\----

Just when Jesse thought he had a moment to go walk off his agitation, maybe have a quick smoke, he heard Winston’s voice piped through a nearby intercom.

_“Ah, Agent McCree. Athena tells us that you’re up and about. We’re having a short, impromptu-meeting, if you would make it down to the conference room. We’d like to discuss the recent uh… incident you faced before coming here.”_

The nicotine addiction pulled at his skin, making him more tired and irritated than he should’ve been at this hour. He gazed at the door at the end of the hall. On the other side was sunshine, sea salt, and no one to yell at him for lighting up. McCree sighed.

“Yeah, sure thing Winston. Be right there.”

_“Excellent! We’ll be in the east conference room.”_

McCree took the most direct route there, but he did mosey along at a rather uninspired pace.

When McCree entered the conference room, he swept his gaze around the table. Mercy was there, in her pristine white lab coat, making all the old guard look like hell next to her age-defying existence. Pharah was seated to her right, a light jacket thrown over her athletic gear, and an arm thrown over the back of the chair. McCree was surprised to see Fareeha acting so casual but this had been her home—one of many—at one point. Reinhardt and Torbjörn were seated across from them. Some sweet young thing was at Torb’s side, although the sweet thing was built like a brick shit-house. He hadn’t seen her around yet, during the strange hours he’d managed to pull himself out of bed. McCree almost did a double-take when he realized just _who_ that sweet thing was. Last time McCree had seen that face it had been attached to a scrawny, round-faced tween. Jesse held up a finger as he ran through the genealogy of Torbjörn’s offspring. It had been awhile since he’d gotten the full run down. He remembered the names, just not the order.

“Heidi-no. No. No. Ast-no… _Brigitte?!"_

“Ja? Sorry, have we met?” Jesse scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Nah. Three guesses who told me all about you, though.” McCree couldn’t help but smile as the young woman groaned and tipped her head to the sky.

“ _Papa!_ ”

“What? Can’t a father be proud of his children?”

“No one is ever going to take me seriously if you keep treating me like a baby!”

Torbjörn patted her with a surprising amount of gentleness, considering he was using his claw, “But you _are_ the baby, and you’ll always be my baby.”

Brigitte let out a strangled sort of groan and buried her face in her arms. Jesse smiled. There was a slow tug at his heart, a familiar pull along forgotten fault lines.

He’d forgotten this. He’d have to get used to this again. That eternally unsatisfied, painful piece of him who got wistful and jealous of all the things he never had.

There was laughter from the rest of the table. McCree wasn’t sure what to make of the new faces. As detached as McCree had been for the past five years, he knew Lúcio Correia dos Santos. By reputation, if not by music. McCree was far more interested in the man’s actions as a freedom fighter than following his musical career anyway. It still felt a bit surreal to be in the same room with someone so… the man had a fucking Grammy award! An international superstar! Rumor mill was that Lúcio was working on a musical to nab a Tony as well.

Seemed like the rumor mill was a bit misinformed, by McCree’s estimation. At least at the moment.

The other new blood at his side, Hana Song was already back to flicking her way through a screen-reader. It was tough to catch what she was looking at backwards and in Korean, but from the pictures Jesse could make out it seemed to be a news feed. He realized what she was looking up a moment later. It wasn’t crystal clear, and it was heavily washed out, as he was looking at it from the wrong side, but he could see a familiar mugshot scroll by.

She caught him looking, and held his gaze, slowly building a pink bubble at her lips. McCree froze in place, not sure what to do. Too late to make a good impression, and he didn’t know enough about Miss Song to know if she was about to decide to take to bounty hunting. There was a handsome number attached to that mugshot.

Jesse settled his weight on his left leg, moving so subtly, but still moving Peacekeeper closer to his draw hand.

His new draw hand.

The bubble finally popped and Hana looked back at her screen dismissively, cracking her gum.

Jesse felt like he’d failed some kind of test. Still, he felt slightly more at ease. Jesse scanned the room once more. Lena was nowhere to be seen, which was frankly a blessing. She was way too chipper to handle in the morning.

“No Genji?” Jesse let his gaze fall on the last person in the room, apart from Winston—who still qualified as a person in McCree’s book.

“Ah no, Zenyatta is not an official member of Overwatch. While he’s allowed here as a guest, he needs to be escorted at all times,” Winston adjusted his comically small glasses.

It was hard to make out the features of the man seated on the file cabinet in the corner. There was a huge visor covering his eyes attached to a carbon fiber mask. All Jesse could make out for sure was a sprawling map of scars creeping up from under the mask and a shock of white hair. His jacket was pretty sick though. Still there was something… _familiar_ about him, that Jesse couldn’t place.

At least not until he cleared his throat.

It was a simple motion, a fist bracing his sternum, both shoulders moving forward, but it was enough to give him away.

Jack. Fucking. Morrison.

How many times had McCree seen that same nervous cough at poker night? Eighteen years, and the man still had the same tell.

It made Jesse so _fucking_ angry. Of course Jack was alive. _Of course._ Why not!?

Jack seemed to realize he’d been made, because there was the barest shake of his head. A message only for McCree.

The cowboy grit his teeth so hard his jaw started to ache.

Fine.

Whatever stupid game this was, he’d play it. He wouldn’t have it out here. The man was damn lucky McCree didn’t end his charade with a bullet to the head. At least if he was dead the last five years spent missing him wouldn’t have been wasted.

McCree was livid. It made focusing on Winston difficult—something that, reasonably, should have been impossible. Still, his brain was set on a single circuit, winding him up like a viper getting ready to spit. He stared at Winston.

He tried to summon up the details of his experience on the hypertrain as Winston gave his droning overview.

McCree sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He pulled at the memory of putting down a car full of Talon scrubs. It cut through the anger enough to sober him. He still wasn’t happy, not by a long shot, but at least he could _hear_ again.

“What were they after, Agent McCree, do you know? We’ve been trying to discreetly pull data from the transportation records, but we can’t afford to get caught.”

“Don’t know, and got no opinion on that matter. I chucked the cargo they were after. Big ol’ box. ‘Bout so.” McCree sketched the rough dimensions of the crate with his hands, as best he could remember. “Glowy. Purple.” Jesse shrugged, “Seemed less important than keeping the folks on that train alive and well.”

“Good man!” Reinhardt’s thunderous voice almost made Jesse flinch. Almost.

“Yeah, well. More concerned about the playbook they were using.” McCree paused. He wasn’t sure how initiated the new blood was, and he had always tried to minimize the whole Blackwatch thing in front of Pharah. “Was pretty familiar to my old crew.”

“Ugh, what is the point of inviting us to a briefing if you’re not gonna tell us what’s up?” Hana tossed the screen reader across the table in agitation.

“Complicated,” Jesse said.

At the same time Jack grunted, “Classified.” McCree leveled an intense scowl at Jack. If he thought about it hard enough, maybe he’d spontaneously develop heat-laser vision. Morrison seemed to take the hint, and withdrew just a fraction.

_Good enough._

“If you want a clue what the box is, maybe look at Deadlock. That’s what I was cleaning up before… I came back. Someone in Talon recognized me on the train. Mighta been there in the gorge,” Jesse shrugged.

“Deadlock? Now that brings back memories…” Torbjörn thankfully stopped himself short. McCree wasn’t proud of the kid they picked up out of the bowels of Deadlock Gorge. As far as he knew, Fareeha never found out where he was recruited from, and he damn well wanted to keep it that way. New blood didn’t need to know any of that shit about him either. Bad enough he was a wanted man.

“Yeah. Ran into more than I could handle down in the gorge. Talon was there too. Not sure what they were cooking up but…” Jesse couldn’t finish the thought. He barely crawled out of there with his life intact, if not his limbs.

On the screen behind Winston, pictures started winking into existence. Jesse scanned over the rogue’s gallery of Talon’s known leaders and notable figures. He scowled at Dr. O’Deorian’s somewhat less familiar face. The face plate was new. As were whatever implants she put above her eyebrows. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have surprised him when she turned up, years later deeply ensconced in Talon’s inner circle. He passed over the image of whatever Amélie Lacroix became. Widowmaker.

He settled on the bone-white mask in the center.

“Yeah. Reaper was there too. Lucky I’m still here.” He tried to ignore the itching he could feel inhabiting his metal arm.

“Well then, we’ll have to see if we can recover any communications from the area. Talon’s always been tough to crack, but we might have some luck if any Deadlock communications weren’t properly secured. Whatever it was must be important if Reaper was there to personally oversee it.” Winston drummed his fingers on the table, deep in thought. The ape glanced over at Morrison in the corner. “Uh, anything to add Soldier: 76?”

“No.”

“Anyways. I was there to do a bit of spring cleaning. Seems I ran into their meeting with Talon by chance. Woulda thought twice about going in there if I’d known what all was waiting for me. So they kept it reasonably under wraps.”

“Deadlock specializes in arms dealing, correct?” Pharah sat forward, resting both arms on the table. “If they were going to nab something from the hypertrain, maybe they needed Deadlock to move it?”

“You sure there’s nothing else you’re forgetting? Something you haven’t told us?” Morrison’s voice was broken, but not beyond recognition.

It was getting harder and harder for McCree to keep his cool. “Nah, you know what. You’re right. Completely slipped my mind. I overheard their entire secret plan and I was just sittin’ on it until you ask me a stupid question.”

“Woah uh, let’s keep it cool in here, alright man?” Jesse shifted in place, casting a quick glance at the new faces at the table, resting on Lúcio. Right.

“Sorry. Been workin’ alone for awhile. Guess I’ve let my professional manners slip a little. Anyway, that’s the most I can tell ya’ll. Reaper was there. Deadlock’s tangled up in it somehow, and at least some of the Talon folks who were at the hypertrain incident were either at that meeting or were swayed over before Geneva. Dunno which one’s worse to be honest. Seems neater if they were at the little hookup between Deadlock and Talon though.”

“And more likely. We’ve already compiled our list of all known former Overwatch elements now involved with Talon.”

McCree nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on Reaper’s bone white mask again. Made sense that they’d already tallied up the traitors and betrayers. “Anyway, sorry it ain’t much. I was there for personal reasons. My intel didn’t scrounge up anything about what ended up going down.”

“Any assistance in tracking Reaper is welcome. He’s practically a ghost. Don’t like the thought of him showing up again.” Winston shifted uncomfortably. McCree tilted his head.

“Again?”

“Yes… he uh, attacked on the night I initiated the recall.” Jesse scratched under the brim of his hat. He felt even more like a heel for his initial refusal of the recall now.

“Sorry to hear that. If your encounter was half as bad as mine, you got my condolences.” He studiously avoided Mercy’s gaze. He’d told her as little as possible for his treatment plan.

He aimed to keep it that way for the time being.

“Anyway, I can write it all up in a more detailed brief if you want, but that’s the long and short of it.”

“If you would, Agent McCree. We should add it to Athena’s archives.”

Jesse cast his eyes about the room, not really sure where to look at the invisible intelligence. “Right. I’ll get right on that. Am I dismissed or what?” He looked to Morrison, out of habit. The man didn’t give any kind of signal that would accidentally undermine Winston’s apparent authority.

“I suppose so. We’re just guessing without further research. We’ll have to investigate the cargo on the train and see if we can’t figure out what Deadlock’s part in this was.”

It felt strange to be dismissed by Winston, but McCree wasn’t about to complain about a short debrief. Not when his missing arm was itching to high hell and the need for a smoke was clawing at him like a devil.

McCree turned on his heel and made for the door.

“Oh my _GOD_ are those spurs for real!?”

McCree didn’t pause to answer Miss Song’s question.

\----

Morrison got to his feet, and tailed Jesse out of the conference room. He wasn’t looking forward to this. It didn’t take long to follow the sound of spurs and catch up to the man.

“Hey.”

McCree didn’t bother to turn around. Morrison had seen storm fronts containing F5 tornadoes move through an area with less fury.

It didn’t deter him from his mission.

“Hey,” he said again, knowing full well McCree heard him the first time.

“Fuck off.” Jesse didn’t even look back. The only reason Morrison knew the man wasn’t still seventeen and had actually matured some was because only one middle finger was levied in his direction.

“McCree, do I really need to have this conversation with your shoulder blades?”

“You can talk at me all you want. Don’t gotta listen to you. You ain’t in charge here, clearly. I’m going for a smoke—yeah that’s right I said a smoke, go and report that to the good doctor why don’tcha?” McCree tipped his head up and raised his voice, clearly speaking to Athena.

Jack sighed to himself as Jesse kicked the door open to go outside. He’d _just_ finished repairs on that one last week. McCree had been on base for barely 72 hours and they were already back at square one.

Morrison followed McCree in dogged silence. Several gulls took flight as they crossed the tarmac. Winston had admitted that over the years the wildlife had taken a shine to the place before he showed up. Morrison hadn’t realized that’d meant he’d signed himself up to help transplant about five thousand birds nests and two monkey troupes. Since Correia dos Santos joined and set up his sonic array, most of the birds seemed to be discouraged from taking up residence on the tarmacs at least. With luck it would prevent an infestation once breeding season really kicked in. Some of the more stupid and determined ones were still landing now and then, and the rest of the watch point was still being reclaimed, but it was an improvement.

Of course McCree _would_ show up after the groundwork was done.

Morrison waited until Jesse had found railing overlooking the ocean. He also waited until the man had lit up and was a good fourth of the way through his foul cigar or cigarillo, whichever it was. Despite a lifetime in the military, Morrison had never picked up the habit. Amari and Reyes had teased him constantly; mocking him and pantomiming outrageous caricatures of infidelity any time they went for a smoke break together.

“Hey.”

If they had to start over, might as well start over from the beginning.

“ _You._ Tch. So, you’re still here.” McCree shook his head, as if disgusted. “Heard you kicked it in Geneva. Nice of the neighborhood’s friendliest ghost to stop by.”

“Well I’m not the only ghost out there, apparently.” McCree paused in the middle of flicking ash over the railing. Morrison pressed on, “Gabriel’s still alive, Jesse.”

The lack of reaction was deafening. The tiniest sliver of a shred of Morrison that still gave a damn about McCree’s good opinion had at least hoped that the man might get mad at Reyes. Instead it was like Jesse had been petrified, turned to stone.

“You know.” The realization seemed to allow McCree to return to life. The man brought the smoke back up to his lips.

“Yeah… yeah, I know.” There was a soft, bitter laugh after that quiet admission. “If you’re trying to warn me, you’re kinda late.”

It made sense.

Whoever was trying to get under his skin by letting him know Gabe was alive, they’d certainly let Jesse in on it too. Or if Gabe was behind it, he wouldn’t be able to resist letting Jesse know. Jesse was about the closest thing Gabe ever had to a kid.

Morrison certainly felt like the step-parent often enough, over the years.

“You know where he is? What he’s after?” Jack studied McCree who’d become more closed off than ever. They were never really close, never quite saw eye to eye, but Jesse had always taken great pains to be offended by him. Even when there was never ill will from Jack’s end.

McCree let out the most agitated, guttural sigh, “You really like asking stupid questions today, don’t you? No. I ain’t got the faintest clue. Sounds like you know as much as I do right now.”

“Really? There’s _nothing?"_  Morrison wouldn’t put it past McCree to hold ties or loyalty to Reyes over him. Hell, the man might be acting on orders Reyes had given him five or six years ago, for all Morrison knew.

_It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you._

“You testing my loyalty? After I came back to _this?_ Even if Gabe wasn’t my boss before everything split to pieces, it don’t make a damn bit of difference. It don’t even matter which of you was right or wrong or if I backed the wrong horse because, _Jackie_ , you ain’t entitled to my loyalty anymore.” McCree started enumerating his points on the fingers of his metal hand, as if explaining to a child. “You ain’t in charge. You pretended to be dead for five years. You didn’t try to hunt me down while you _pretended_ to be six feet under. Far as I knew, you were dead and gone. If you’d wanted me to know, you coulda let me know. You never asked a thing from me in all that time, so I don’t owe you shit.” Morrison had forgotten how stubborn and put-upon Jesse could get, when pressed. Any modicum of peace they’d arranged between them seemed to be dissolved with the old Overwatch.

Or his ruse.

Fine by Jack.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t reveal you know my identity to the others.”

Jesse released a cloud of smoke through his nostrils, a calculating gleam in those dark eyes. Morrison knew he was running the numbers. Weighing the costs and benefits if he did just the opposite.

“Why should I care about keeping your secret?” The cloud of smoke McCree blew in his face was largely wasted thanks to the mask and visor. The odor of it still washed over him, but it didn’t send him into a coughing fit.

“Well. I can think of a few things. New faces here don’t know where you came from, right? We never told Pharah or Lena we picked you up in that sting, either.” Jesse narrowed his eyes, but at least Jack knew he had the man’s attention.

“They don’t have to hear about Deadlock or Blackwatch from me.”

“That a threat?” McCree lifted a brow. He couldn’t tell if the cowboy was impressed or not.

“I guess it is.”

There was a long, tense silence.

Morrison _hated_ how much it felt like a standoff in an Eastwood movie. Ash fell to the ground, next to the toe of Jesse’s boot.

“The fuck am I supposed to call you again?”

“Soldier. Soldier: 76.”

Jesse sighed heavily, “That is just… the worst fucking fake name you could have picked out, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised considering that’s the worst jacket I ever seen. Alright. Fine. Soldier 76 it is.” McCree paused, halfway through taking his next drag. “Hey, who all _does_ know about you anyhow?”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re not telling my secret, right?”

McCree sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Fuck off. Lemme indulge in my vices, and gimme some peace. Go rest in it, if you want to.”

Morrison was only too happy to clear out.

Halfway back across the tarmac, the wind off the surf carried the heart-breaking fragment of a whistled tune past Jack’s ears that no bird ever sang. Morrison hunched his shoulders and tried to block out the memory of slow dances and sly grins that used to accompany that song. He should have remembered. It was always the same when things got personal.

McCree always aimed for the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from [ "Fire" by Barns Courney](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLEoictM8p4) (Ya'll are going to become well acquainted with my playlist choices by the end of this)
> 
> Fair warning: it may be a good while before this updates in any type of regularish fashion since I'm still sketching it all out, but I wanted to get it out there at least since I have this much. Putting intention in the universe and all that. Also no idea what size this story will be. My guess is.. big? I have a lot of little vignettes but they gotta get all fleshed out, stitched together, and arranged nicely. So I apologize in advance that some of the stuff that is already tagged is gonna take an eternity to show up. (Hanzo probably isn't showing up until chapter 3-4 at the earliest, for example sorry lol. Symbra is also gonna be slow going too RIP.) But once we get there! It'll be worth the wait.
> 
> (Also this chapter has been.. half-beta'd at this point. May do some editing later. I've been sitting on it so long I'm antsy to put this up here lol, but I am giving myself blanket permission to edit and revise as necessary to appease my perfectionism and to leave stuff alone to appease my anxiety. So there.)


	2. A man must be blind to make up his mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for another doctor to join the ranks. One only hopes that history won't repeat itself.

**[November 22, 2064]**

“We really gotta do this?” Jesse hesitates at the end of ramp leading up to their transport. They stopped in Gibraltar for a change in pilots before touching down in Geneva to grab Genji, but Jesse’s body is still telling him that he’s up at some ungodly hour in Australia. It isn’t just fatigue and jet lag that has Jesse dragging his feet to get on the transport again.

“You have a problem, ingrate?” Reyes either by virtue of the SEP program or by destroying his internal clock doesn’t appear the slightest bit bothered by their recent, expedited sojourn across the globe.

“Don’t seem right that’s all. Besides what’re you gonna tell Morrison about all this? That we picked up his trash? Like, even for you boss, this is something else. I mean she got kicked out by the ethics committee and everything. Gonna be a pretty public scandal if people find out she’s still with us.” McCree scratches the back of his neck. He usually doesn’t give two figs about Morrison or what the man does, but McCree can’t think of a recruitment that could be more fraught than this. More than Shimada’s. More than his own. Maybe put together.

“Well it’s a good thing I have a personal payroll that isn’t open to the public or internal affairs, isn’t it Jesse?” McCree holds his hands up, still rooted firmly to the spot.

“Alright, a’right just… You really think this is such a good idea boss? This woman gives me the creeps. You want us to work with her?”

“So I should let her talents go to waste, simply because she isn’t personable like you? Provided she accepts our offer Dr. O’Deorain is coming on with us, and I’m assuming she’s going to accept because she doesn’t have very many choices right now. So you better get used to it. After the disgrace she’s suffered on the scientific stage, Blackwatch is her last shot at something. Least that’s how I aim to pitch it at her.” Reyes taps his foot, impatient to get to the base in Dover.

“You still didn’t answer my other question. What’s Morrison gotta say about it?” McCree truly has to admire the ice in Reyes’s veins sometimes. The man doesn’t flinch or even appear the least little bit bothered by the mention of Jack.

“Morrison isn’t gonna know about it.”

“You really think you can keep this secret from him?” McCree isn’t certain how that’s even possible. Not that he’s keen to picture it, there’s gotta be _some_ pillow talk between them, right?

“I have to. That’s the arrangement,” Reyes shrugs. As if it doesn’t mean anything to undermine the ethics committee of the institution his… paramour is the public face of. They operate outside the lines and red tape, sure, but Reyes has always made it clear they have _standards._ Their own code of ethics and honor that Jesse can’t seem to reconcile with Gabriel’s latest decision.

“Man I don’t understand you two sometimes.” McCree shakes his head, utterly baffled. He scratches under the brim of his hat. It’s broken in nicely between now and the two Christmases since Reyes gave it to him. McCree wonders if he’ll be awake enough between here and Dover to give the leather a good polish. It’s overdue and a bit dusty.

“With luck you don’t have to. It’s tough sometimes. I can tell you that, but we trust each other. It’s how he and I get through. Jack trusts me to make the right decision. It may not always be by the books, but he knows I got my reasons. I can’t always explain myself to him ‘cause he can’t know some of this shit, but… I know you don’t like him mijo but Jack and I are more alike than you think. Lot more alike than the world thinks, that’s for sure. It’s one of the reasons he trusts me so much.”

Jesse can’t help his sneer or the curl of his lip, “Coulda sworn there was another reason for that.”

Reyes just rolls his eyes, unimpressed, “Shut up. Don’t be difficult about this.” Defending his relationship with Jack is old hat for him, Jesse supposes. Internally and externally.

“I just got a bad feeling about this boss. Do we _really_ want this woman hanging around us? After the shit she pulled? When she had _normal_ rules and restrictions supposedly keeping her in check? I don’t wanna wake up and find out she’s harvested half my toes and grafted frog DNA into my brainstem just cause she got bored.”

“Well, I wouldn’t start off by pitching the idea to her, that’s for sure.”

“Boss! Ain’t you even a _little_ bit concerned about what she could do to the rest of us?”

“Look, your opinion—and concerns—have been noted. I’ll keep an eye on her don’t you worry.”

“Yeah, great. Makes me feel a whole lot better.” Jesse scuffs his boot on the ground, and shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s still rooted to the spot, even though he knows the argument is coming to an end.

“Listen, Jesse, we let this woman go? She’s got nowhere else to go. Her talents are gonna go to waste—or _worse_ —to our enemies. You understand? She’s got _nothing_ if we don’t step up. I’m not about to throw a woman of her talents away, or hand her over to our enemies just because… She’s too dangerous and too valuable for that. You think it’s bad enough the shit she pulled when she was with us? You wanna picture this woman in Deadlock, or with the likes of the Shimadas, or Talon?”

“I guess. What’re we bringing the ninja for?” McCree gestures his head towards the plane, where Genji is already sitting in the belly, well out of earshot of their conversation.

“Well, Dr. O’Deorain and Dr. Ziegler have something of a professional rivalry going on. Figure I’d bring him along to give her a bit of extra motivation. Just in case the good doctor’s feeling reluctant.”

“What’re you bringing me for then?” _I could be fucking asleep right now._ A grin stretches across Gabriel’s face.

“Isn’t it obvious Jesse? You’re my left-hand man.”

***

**[May 3, 2072]**

McCree slept in again, shutters still resolutely closed against his inhospitable neighbors and the inconsiderate sun. He nearly crawled into the same plaid button-up he’d been wearing the past two days running, but kicked it into the corner of the room at the last moment. He _did_ own more than one shirt, after all. He owned five of them. He had more serapes than shirts at this point. He might have to think about investing in some more clothes, if he was going to stick around for the foreseeable future.

He glanced around the largely bare room. Maybe he could throw a few euros towards some decorations too. Some posters, maybe something green to sit in a pot until he forgot its existence once it became part of the scenery. Something to make the space seem less like a prison cell. He tried not to think about where the hell any money was going to come from. He glanced over at the collection of bourbon and whiskey sitting on top of the dresser. He hadn’t needed the sunshine he kept hidden from daylight since the other night.

It was eerie, walking through the empty halls. It was like walking inside a coffin. In the old days there would have been people coming and going, whole rooms full of softly humming terminals and people arguing over data in a dozen different languages. The emptiness made McCree’s chest ache in the same way his missing arm pained him. _Stupid. Too sentimental for your own good._ It was something he’d never been able to break himself of. By the time he’d been convinced it wasn’t a failing, everything he held dear was crumbling into dust around him. At least, that’s what it seemed like. It just hurt to come back and see the grave. Something he’d never done for Gabe or Jack. Just like theirs, this grave was empty.

His melancholy ruminations were cut by the pungent aroma of fava beans and an earthy sear of cumin as he approached the kitchen. There was the smell of baking bread wafting through the air as well. As he got closer, he could make out the smell of garlic and lightly caramelized onions underneath that. Jesse let out the tiniest sigh before he approached the doors. His heart ached with another absence. One much longer in the forming, from an empty grave he’d actually visited.

“Hey manita. You makin’ yer mom’s fūl?” It was just Fareeha there, standing over a covered saucepan at the stove. She didn’t have any workout gear, but she had a bohemian, casual outfit on. Loose pants and a long knit vest over a t-shirt. Once again,  McCree couldn’t even begin to understand her fashion decisions.

“Oh, hey Jesse! Yeah. I made plenty, if you want to steal some for yourself once it’s done.”

“I’m hurt you think I would sink so low as to steal someone else’s food,” McCree grinned as Pharah laughed. “I did miss this, though. Ain’t had a good plate of fūl in years. Now you gone an exposed yourself though.” He lightly tutted Fareeha in admonishment. “You didn’t plant that cilantro for me at all. Was fer yer mama’s cookin’.” He couldn’t help but laugh as Fareeha attempted to push the muscles of her mouth beyond the limitations of the human body into an as yet unnamed expression of distress and displeasure.

“Jesse you _know_ the curse I suffer. Don’t make light of my predicament.” Fareeha lifted the edge of the lid covering the saucepan and stirred the reddish concoction within. “Just be glad that the seeds don’t bother me like the leaves. I’m sure you’d just bitch and moan if they weren’t in there.”

McCree laughed, “See, that just makes you extra sweet.” He glanced over at the runner sunning itself happily underneath the window.

“No one’s making me eat it. Except _you_.” Pharah brandished her spatula at him. It was really unfair to poor Pharah, but she just kept raising the specter of her mother. McCree felt the same mixture of amusement, fear, and contrition he’d felt many times in the Captain’s kitchen.

“Aw, you still sore about that? It was _one_ time. Barely even qualifies as a prank!”

“It was my first date!”

“Well, seems to me like you're _conveniently_ forgetting the part where you let me take the fall for one of the pranks you pulled on Morrison the week before. Reap what you sow.”

“Come on Jesse, I panicked! Mama would have grounded me. And then I wouldn't have been able to go on my date!”

“Yeah, well if I'm going to get in trouble for tweaking Morrison's nose, I damn well want to be the one doing the tweaking. Besides I seem to recall you getting a follow-up date, so don't you go holding grudges over spilled cilantro between friends.”

“Yeah, but she thought I was crazy when I started retching over dinner! I probably could have made a better impression without your soapy devil leaves in my food.”

“What was her name again anyway?”

“Kaylah. I forget were you around for the fallout?”

“Don't think so why? I think that was about the time I got stationed in Argentina for a couple months. Don't recall you telling me any stories about a nuclear break up at the time when I got back.”

“No not _me_ , my parents. It's the only time I ever saw them fight about anything.”

“Really? Sam and the captain?” McCree had met Fareeha’s father only a couple times. Brief encounters, each time. He’d mumbled something to the man about mutual condolences as Sam stood at Pharah’s shoulder the last time they were in a room together. It was a strange moment for McCree. With Ana dead, it sort of felt like… his door to Fareeha was closed. Like he was an outsider again. Pharah had her own life by then, and without Captain Amari there to bridge the gap between them… _Maybe that’s just a poor excuse you’re telling yourself to cope with how shitty you were about keeping in contact after that. You coulda made more effort._

“Apparently they had established _rules_ about when I was allowed to start dating. It turns out that mama gave me permission to go on this date a year before they had agreed that I was allowed to start dating, and for whatever reason he lost his shit over it. It wasn't even a real date! It was here! Well not _here,_ here, but you know what I mean. In the living quarters that I shared with mama. At Overwatch. We didn't even go out to see a movie in a theater!”

McCree shook his head and settled onto one of the stools, instantly regretting his choice as it wobbled between uneven feet where one of the spacers had been lost long ago. “I definitely wasn't here for that. Your mom never had an unkind thing to say about your father. I always got the impression that they got along well.”

“They usually did. Like I said, this is the only time I ever remember them fighting. I think he was about ready to go AWOL to come here and yell at her. He was so mad about it.” Pharah rolled her eyes to the heavens. McCree chuckled, but it was hard to picture Sam without that solemn look on his face. The look of a man who had just discovered he’d left something undone that could never be finished.

“You ever think…” McCree settled his chin against his metal palm. The sensation was approaching familiar. He considered retracting the question before he asked it, but he barreled ahead anyway, ”I know this ain't my business, but they ever regret not getting married?”

Pharah shrugged. “I think that's what they would have done, if that's what they really wanted. I don't hold any illusions about my conception, Jesse. Or the kind of relationship my parents had. Maybe I wasn't planned for, but they made sure that I knew I was loved and wanted. And they were good co-parents… despite being several continents apart most of my childhood.”

“Hm. You think so?” McCree scratched his beard. He thought he’d recognized regret in Sam’s face that day, but what did he know? He’d only been in the same room as the other man maybe five minutes tops.

“Why, do you know something I don’t?” Pharah shot him a speculative look over her shoulder.

“The amount of shit I know that you don’t could probably fit into a thimble. Just… ain’t had a chance to reflect on yer mom as of late. She never really said anything about it, and I never had the balls to ask her anything like that while she was around. Just curious if it was a work versus life thing with them or what. They cared for each other. That much I could tell.”

Fareeha shrugged again. “It probably would have been easier, maybe even possible, if they had both been in Overwatch. But my father never made the switch from the Canadian military. He didn’t want to. I don’t know that mama wanted to be married, period. At least… not yet? Plus, there was the differences in nationalities and that whole… hassle.” She shook her head and stirred the fava beans again, sprinkling in a bit more salt, after tasting just the tip of her spatula.

“You talk to your dad lately?”

“Yeah, finally got to visit him. That was a nightmare and a half though. So, I had a flight scheduled in December. Then Helix yanked my chain, and told me my hours accrued weren’t _available_ to me, which is _bullshit_ because I had never taken time off. But the computer said otherwise, so I had to cancel my plans.” Pharah snorted derisively, “I mean, I considered going anyway, but I didn’t think I could live through the guilt if one of my subordinates died without me there to look after them, you know? Couldn’t get a refund on my tickets, of course. I was fucking pissed too. My dad and I were supposed to go to a potlatch together. One of my cousins arranged it. I haven’t been to one since I was fourteen.” Pharah sucked on her teeth for a moment, still furious. _“Then_ they come back in, like, mid-February and finally tell me ‘Oh we’re so sorry, there was a mix-up, turns out you _definitely_ had the time available after all.’ So, it was late, but I was able to finally go see him at the beginning of March for a couple weeks.”

“How’s life treating him?” McCree shifted and the legs of the stool settled with him into a new configuration of three of four legs on the floor.

“Pretty good. He’s talking about retiring finally.”

“Talk is cheap,” McCree chuckled softly.

“That’s what I told him, but… I think he’s serious. I think he’s ready to be an old man and _make_ things. He’s talking about picking up weaving. Says he hopes by the time he’s ready to kick the bucket he’ll have made at least one blanket that’s worth passing down.”

“Hm. I thought boat making was the traditional hobby of retired old men. Seems to be pretty universal.”

Pharah chuckled. “Well, he might get to that too. We’ll see. He knows a couple people who keep with our boat making traditions.” Pharah turned off the shrill, digital beeping of the timer after two chirps. A moment later, she leaned down and pulled some steaming bread from the oven on a baking stone. They were puffed up like tiny, overstuffed pillows and looked about ready to burst at the seams. McCree noticed one in the corner of the tray was already starting to deflate a bit. McCree felt his stomach rumble in protest. As if to say _how dare you keep me empty in the presence of real food?_

“Fūl and fresh aish baladi? Gettin’ me a feast fit for a king here.”

“I don’t think a king would appreciate peasant food like this. It would be like casting pearls before swine.” McCree let out a wicked cackle.

In less than five minutes McCree had (another) hearty meal in front of him. He wondered how long it would take before he got spoiled again. Before he took good nutrition and steady squares for granted. Despite being just a little too hot, McCree tucked in, throwing a bit of Tabasco sauce in for good measure. It wasn’t the best for his gut, maybe, but he liked an extra kick in the morning to wake up. Not that Ana’s fūl was lacking in spices.

“Yer mama taught you well. You gotta pass on the secret to me someday. Bout time for me to learn something new. What you think?”

Pharah chuckled, “Now if I do that you won’t have a reason to sneak into the kitchen to have breakfast with me anymore.”

“Careful, talk like that people’ll think I was wanted around here,” McCree used the bread to shovel more of the mashed fava beans into his gullet.

 _“Jesse,”_ Fareeha rolled her eyes, but she was distracted in the next moment as the fūl spilled over the corner of her bread and onto her wrist. “Ow! Fuck, that’s hot!” Pharah sucked on her wrist, and Jesse had to turn his head and laugh.

He really had missed Ana’s daughter.

They ate in companionable silence for the next few minutes. Jesse started a pot of coffee at Pharah’s urging. The machine was currently making guttural, bubbling noises as scalding hot water was pumped through coffee grounds packed thicker than grave dirt. He leaned back to watch the pot fill with the much less impressive fruits of his labor, the edge of the counter pressed against his lower back in such a way that he might regret it in a few minutes. A question nipped at him like a flea on his neck. Something he hadn’t managed to piece together over the last few days. McCree checked the room, and the entrances, to make sure they were alone before he lowered his voice, “Why are you _here,_ Pharah?” The question was directed at the carafe slowly accruing coffee.

“What are you talking about?” He heard her plate scoot along the counter.

“You had a good job with Heilix. Making good, making buck. I assume good benes?” He chanced a glance at her over his shoulder.

“The benefits were okay _at best,_ and they screwed up my time off and didn’t give it back to me for months—”

“Right, right. But still, you _had_ benefits and you gave all that up to come back to this? Operation that don’t even have a line of funding set up as far as I can tell. Ain’t you even the slightest bit concerned about… Dammit Fareeha, why the _fuck_ would you throw all that away?” It pissed him off, now that he thought about it. Fareeha throwing her security and future into the garbage like that. Girl with her brains and education could go anywhere and do anything.

Pharah tightened her jaw, and she had that peculiar look McCree had forgotten. The one where she couldn’t bite her tongue, but was full of preemptive regret for everything she had on her mind. “Jesse, I know you don’t understand, and I’m not asking you to. I know you just take life as it comes. I know you’ve never given much thought to the future, you’ve never had a _dream,_ but I’m not like that.”

There was a bit of an ache in his chest like Pharah had punched him, but several years ago. Not now. The pain wasn’t sharp enough to be hot and fresh and keen. Maybe it _should_ have hurt more, but McCree couldn’t change the category of ache that rested in his ribcage. Pharah seemed to be the one in more pain, at this moment as he turned to face her, clutching herself like she was nursing a shot to the gut. “I mean… That’s true. I haven’t,” McCree shook his head, rounding the corner of the island cautiously, dragging his palm along the surface. It was a completely alien thought, after living day to day since he was thirteen. He tried to set aside his own anger, his frustration at Fareeha’s decision to give up her life’s security.

Pharah exhaled deeply, and the bitterness that dripped over every word made Jesse regret all the time and distance he’d let build between them. “Overwatch was gone before I could join. You know that. I had… already resigned myself to living without ever fulfilling that goal. God Jesse, I lived with the death of that dream for four years already. Longer, if you count Geneva and all the shit that led up to it. It’s not something you just…” She pressed her fingers against her brow for a moment, sucking in a long breath through her nose. She clasped her fingers in front of her lips before dropping them to her sides, practically standing at attention. “Every time I thought I was satisfied or happy with the life I’d chosen for myself I would wake up after a dream just like this, where things were finally _right_ and I’d have that… discontent all over again.” There was a tremble to Fareeha’s jaw now, and McCree’s rusty instincts moved him just a few moments too late, and Fareeha pulled away from the hand he offered. “I can’t live with the death of that dream _twice_ McCree. I just _can’t._ I have to do this because the alternative is _unbearable._ ” Her fist slammed heavy against the countertop.

McCree could see Pharah breathing with the effort of containing her emotions. He didn’t know if he wanted her to just let it out and bellow at him, or if he was proud of the mature woman she’d become. Not that he could take credit for any of that. The coffee maker hissed angrily in the corner, like a wounded thing.

“Hey now,” he held up his hands and slowly closed the distance between them, placing a steadying hand on Fareeha’s shoulder. He tried rubbing his thumb in a small circle against the tightly wound muscle beneath his palm. “You know I’m just… I know you still got dad and yer family and all, but I feel like maybe I owe a little worry over you. What kind of almost-was-a-brother would I be if I didn’t worry about you and yer career choices, huh?”

Pharah’s lip twitched upwards, once, involuntarily by the look of it. “I know,” Fareeha let her eyes drop, and she held out her hand. McCree gently linked his metal fingers with hers. “Hey, I know mama never wanted me to join… but what about you? You sound enough like her right now.”

McCree opened his mouth, but then paused. “I didn’t want you joining my camp. I guess,” he smiled just a little ruefully. “Always felt bad keepin’ secrets around ya, but damn I didn’t want you to have to hold any of that inside you, manita.” Blackwatch was no place for Fareeha. Maybe it was wrong for Captain Amari to keep her daughter from Overwatch, but McCree couldn’t fault her for keeping her from sharing the ranks with the likes of him.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Fareeha nodded, still deep in thought, and she brushed her thumb along the one made of metal. It felt like missing a step on a staircase. Waiting for a response that wasn’t coming to the stimulus he observed.

“You know Jesse you didn’t tell me about your arm any of the times you contacted me. When did this happen?” She unlaced their fingers, pulling them back until just the tips were hooked together. Fareeha searched his face, looking so unbearably sad. It stirred all the memories of trying to keep a young girl occupied while her parents were away, risking death and never coming home. That urge to keep her mind busy, to refocus, was powerful. It led McCree to double down on his duplicitous urges.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” He pulled away, and scratched his cheek with a metal finger, casually trying to play it off as innocent forgetfulness.

“I’m pretty sure I would have remembered you telling me you lost your arm!” Shame that Pharah wasn’t thirteen anymore, though she’d always been good at seeing through bullshit.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” McCree shrugged. It wasn’t a complete lie.

“Well I’m worried _now._ McCree… What happened?” She reached out and rested a hand on his arm, above the seam of metal and flesh. A tendril of firethorn wrapped around his heart, burying its namesake there. Could no one leave him be about his fucking arm?

“Now you _know_ that ain’t polite. You might be close as kin, but you know better,” it was unfair and uncharitable, but he bared his teeth at her in a lecture just the same. Pharah drew her hand back, apparently chastened.

“Well, I’m sorry I just—”

McCree hated to see her looking so miserable, and he tried to course correct for his own misstep. He forced a smile, “Hey, you take a guess what happened. Genji wouldn’t take me up on a wager.”

“McCree, be serious!” Pharah smacked him in the shoulder. Just a little too much weight behind it to be playful. “If you had _told_ me about it I would have wired you money if you needed it. I would have done _anything._ I would have found you a medic, why did you keep this from me?”

McCree didn’t have the heart to tell Pharah that he hadn’t _kept_ it from her and that he’d only lost his arm about a month before he showed up. The coffee machine made another rude noise as it continued to brew.

“You know me, I don’t like to be an imposition on anybody,” he shrugged one shoulder. McCree felt guilt eating away at his heart like acid. Lying to Pharah back in the old days was easier when Blackwatch was involved. He didn’t have that excuse now.

“You aren’t an imposition! You’re a valued member of this team and you’re… practically family Jesse. You know that, right? You haven’t forgotten, I hope.”

McCree let a rueful smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “Nah, I ain’t forgotten Pharah.”

“It sure _feels_ like you forgot somewhere along the way,” she had her hands on her hips now. A hauntingly familiar accusatory look on her face. Convinced she was right about everything, as usual. The sort of look she used to give him when he had to lie about Blackwatch shit, and he didn’t have the right kind of excuses to satisfy her intuition.

 _ <Agents McCree and Amari, please report to the east conference room in one hour for a briefing.> _ McCree looked up at the ceiling along with Fareeha.

“Got it.” Like a thief in the night, McCree snatched his plate off the counter and beat a hasty retreat, ignoring Pharah’s call and the thick aroma of coffee that vainly tried to beckon him back to the kitchen.

\----

McCree left the dishes in his room as he ambled towards the east conference room. Tempted as he was to be late, he headed over in plenty of time. He was starting to get bored and restless. Hopefully the call to a meeting meant there was something to do.

He heard the sound of skates fast approaching behind him. “Hey Jesse James!” McCree looked over his shoulder. The DJ could give Lena a run for her money in the _Most Upbeat_ department.

“Haha. Very clever. Ain't ever heard that one before,” Lúcio fell in beside him, slowing down to match his pace.

“Hey you're gonna wear the duds you gotta be prepared for everything that goes along with it.”

“Surprised you even know who Jesse James is. Didn't think the American West was a big deal down in Rio.”

“Hey hey, I'm a man of culture and a world traveler. I was also on flight to Australia where the only thing they could show us was a History Channel marathon about the history of the Wild West.” If Lúcio had retained even a quarter of the information he’d taken in, he probably knew double what McCree did about American history.

“What were you doing down under?” He couldn’t recall anything he’d read about the man’s career in connection to Australia, but he didn’t really follow his musical career.

“Relief concert.”

“Sounds about right. Sorry what'd you want again?” McCree shoved his hands in his pockets.

“The cowboy look man. What’s with that?” Lúcio gestured up and down with a hand. Encompassing his whole aesthetic. “You have a ranch or something?” McCree laughed at the thought of owning property. _As if._

“No. Normal enough where I came from though.”

“Where’s that?” McCree squinted at Lúcio from the corner of his eyes.

“You’re asking an awful lot of questions, newbie.” It probably wasn’t fair, but he still felt suspicious of the new blood. He didn’t know what sort of checks Winston had—or hadn’t—put them through.

“Just wanna get to know you better if we’re working together.”

“Yeah, no offense and all but how _did_ you and Ms. Song show up? My understanding was recall only went out to bona-fide agents. You two weren’t around in the old days. So, how the hell you two get an invite?”

“Well it's the same for Hana and me. We both got an invite intended for somebody else. I don't feel like saying much more than that for right now.” Lúcio’s upbeat demeanor diminished for a moment. Like an LED on the cusp of dying. Terrible as a man he was, McCree wasn’t going to press the man for whatever was the source of his grief.

“Gotcha. Alright. And Ms. Song?”

“You'll have to ask her whose invite she got.”

McCree remembered her withering look and grimaced internally. _Maybe not yet._ “She didn’t tell you? Ya’ll seem to be getting along just fine.” Ms. Song and Lúcio seemed to have set up a little mutual appreciation society. Hell, even _Reinhardt_ was in on it! McCree had caught the man asking Ms. Song for an autograph.

“Not my story to tell, man,” Lúcio shrugged easily, spinning in place so that he was skating backwards.

McCree let a smile lift one corner of his mouth, “I can respect that, I suppose.”

The east conference room had most of the same crowd as last time, only Lena was here and Genji had swapped places with Angela. McCree waved at him before settling in beside the man, studiously pretending that Morrison did not exist.

“Genji.”

“McCree.”

He glanced around the conference room again. “This mean Angela is babysitting your guest?”

“Indeed,” there was the softest click as Genji clasped his hands together, and there was almost a tightness to his voice under the vocal assistance. McCree furrowed his brows and stared at him, but Genji just shook his head once to the left in a ‘no’ gesture. _Alright. Not my business. Suppose there’s plenty of it unfinished between those two._ McCree shook his head once to dispel a whole host of memories surrounding Genji and Angela’s debacle that was their “relationship.”

Winston cleared his throat at the front of the room. “Alright, now that you’re all here, there’s been a development. If you’ve checked the news today, you’re probably aware.” McCree felt a bit of guilt and he shifted in his chair. He’d gotten out of the habit of checking on the news every day. He’d have to pick that up again. The screen at the front of the room cleared from the navy and white screensaver showing Athena’s ever-present icon. A news feed winked into existence, as did several headlines. _Vishkar admits to theft as part of hypertrain heist! Vishkar Corp Accuses Talon of Theft! Jesse McCree—Blackwatch turned Talon?_ McCree felt a bit of indignation at that subheading. Like hell he was! Spent half his damn life fighting those creeps just to be lumped in with ‘em? Typical. He pulled out a screen reader and furiously started searching as he listened to the Vishkar mouthpiece—Sanjay Korpal—give his spiel.

_“—We have been cleared to reveal that Talon is the party responsible behind the theft of the hypertrain incident. Whether notorious outlaw Jesse McCree is directly involved with Talon or just a hired hand, we can only speculate at this time. We also regret to announce that the cargo, which we cannot go into specific details due to the proprietary nature of our technology, was critical to our rebuilding efforts to the favela in Rio. We do not know how long it will be before we are able to recoup and replace these resources.”_

Winston made a gesture and the newsfeed muted. McCree was somewhat gratified to see that several eyewitnesses on the hypertrain had spoken out about the truth, but he wasn’t surprised to see the general trend was giving more weight and exposure to Vishkar’s official statement as it was the fresh new thing. He flicked through a few more pages on his feed. He’d have to get Morricone on this shit to do some damage control and help amplify the voices of truth.

“As you can see, it is no longer necessary for us to try to mine the data concerning whose cargo that was.”

“So what’s our next move?” McCree threw his arm over the back of his chair, tapping his boot impatiently.

“Well… that’s what I called the meeting to discuss,” Winston cleared his throat. “We need to look into this further. I thought perhaps Lúcio might have some insight on how to proceed, given his history with the company.” All eyes turned towards the international superstar. He was drumming the table thoughtfully in a fast-paced rhythm that wouldn’t have been out of place in a flamenco number.

“We need an in at the company. Take a look at their records and see what it is that Talon stole. Might be materials for producing hard-light. Takes a lot of tech and energy to make that shit go, but it might be something else. Once we know what was lost, we can figure out what Talon wants with it, right?”

“I do not remember Talon ever using hard-light technology,” Genji tipped his head thoughtfully beside McCree.

“Don’t remember that myself,” McCree scratched his beard. “Guess they could be branching out.”

Brigitte put her elbows on the table, “There aren’t a lot of hard-light architects out there, right? Vishkar’s the industry leader, so if Talon has anyone who can use it, they’d almost have to be from Vishkar, right?”

“There’s a few others around, but yeah, they got the lion’s share,” Lúcio agreed. “I may have a candidate in mind to help us out. She isn’t part of the company anymore, but she could prove to be a useful resource. Convincing her is probably gonna be the hard part.”

“Why do you think an ex-member of Vishkar is going to be of more use than someone within the company?” As much as Jesse hated to agree with Jack, Morrison had a good point. How useful could this woman be if she wasn’t active in the corporation?

“Vishkar prizes loyalty above all else—and sometimes even that isn’t enough. They use their sonic technology on their employees as much as the populaces living under their gilded roofs. Cracking someone under that influence is hard. I can counter it with my own version of the tech, but it’s harder.”

“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this for awhile,” McCree eyed Lúcio speculatively across the table.

“Been looking for a weakness a long time. Been putting together a profile and everything. I just haven’t had the right time for an approach. This train incident might be our in.”

“So who _is_ this woman?” Reinhardt’s voice boomed out across the table.

“Yeah, tell us luv!” Tracer was sitting on her leg, nearly bouncing in her chair. Lúcio flicked his hand and a disc of green light materialised over the table. A 3-D portrait grew from the disc, a dark-skinned woman in a Vishkar outfit and some sort of specialized headgear appeared. McCree didn’t think they were cybernetic implants. They looked too large for that, though they might have been connected to some.

“Dr. Satya Vaswani. 24-years old. She was raised by Vishkar as part of their Architech Academy program. She’s been with them since childhood. She was picked up in Hyderabad. Not everyone can use hard-light, and Vishkar likes to train them young for the most successful results. By all accounts Vaswani’s a savant with it. Totally unique approach. She’s done some corporate espionage shit for them, but she was cut from the company after expressing some personal opinions that didn’t jive with the company’s message.” Lúcio sat back in his chair.

“Sounds promising!” Lena appeared excited, “When do we fire up the jets? I haven’t been to Brazil yet! Always looking to notch a new country on my belt!”

“We gotta settle on an approach here,” McCree pointed out. “Sure she got canned, but she was raised by them. That’s tough to shake. You really think this woman is gonna just fold on ‘em?” Even Jesse had needed convincing to roll on Deadlock.

“The list of potential inroads is pretty short. Vaswani is the most likely name that keeps coming up every time I look,” Lúcio shook his head. “The fact that she spoke out against them… that’s something at least. We just got to get her on board. You know, the enemy of my enemy and all that. I think the best approach might be to offer her a job. I mean, we sort of are, right?”

“Will she see them as the enemy?” Winston pushed his glasses up his nose. “And hasn’t she found a new job yet? I find it hard to believe that someone hasn’t tried to pick her up already.”

“Believe me, she does not have a new job yet. And she won't be recruited either. She's been blacklisted.” Lúcio spoke about his foe with certainty. “Her resume’s out there, but she’s still living in the same apartment in Rio. Last time I checked in, she barely leaves the place.”

“Sounds like leverage we can use to help convince her to join up then,” Soldier seemed satisfied with the intelligence, now that it had been laid out. “Who’s going to go try and convince her?”

“I’ll do it,” Lúcio said right away.

“I’ll be the ride, naturally,” Lena giggled.

“McCree.” Winston threw his name out, as though he would know what to do with it.

“Yeah?”

“Did you want to go?” If this was Winston’s idea of leadership, McCree might have to take the gorilla aside and educate him on decisions and delegation versus suggestions.

“Uh… is that a good idea right now? She may not take kindly to the so called ‘thief’ of Vishkar property. Not to mention being in the same town where a whole mess of them are stationed and might be lookin’ for me.”

Winston sighed, “Would you be able to put together a credible disguise? Ideally you’d only be there a few days, tops. Maybe less. Your people skills would be invaluable here.” McCree laughed and looked around the room.

“…Well shit, I’m the best we got at people-ing right now? Ain’t that a sad statement.” He barked out a laugh. “Alright. I guess I can try to shake the rust off.”

“If nothing else, I trust your intuition and ability to read people remains sharp as ever.”

McCree grinned, “We can set down to a few rounds of poker and see if that’s still true.”

Winston sighed. “Alright. We’ll do a bit of work. Set up a webpage and extend an invitation for an interview to Vaswani. It’ll take a few days to put something together. I suppose the company should be some sort of start-up…”

“I know some people, if you need help,” Ms. Song was examining her nails. “They don’t ask too many questions and they take payment in funny images.”

“…Funny images?” Winston shifted his glasses nervously.

Ms. Song grinned and McCree instantly pictured a tiger. “Yeah. You ready to be a meme?”

“Uh… let’s… let’s wait on that for now.” The gorilla cleared his throat as delicately as was possible for a creature of a few hundred pounds.

\----

The rest of the meeting passed with ping-ponging ideas back and forth. Eventually they had cribbed together a reasonable cover for McCree, Lúcio, and a startup company. Winston and Athena were going to have a go at setting up their page and see if they couldn’t make the thing look respectable. McCree even agreed to publish an article or two about it. Genji could only assume that it would not be as Morricone despite being his pseudonym with his largest reach and audience. In the past, when he had discovered McCree’s past-time, he’d explained that Morricone needed to keep his integrity. Hopefully, if Vaswani looked, she wouldn’t probe too deeply, and they could dispose of the startup before anyone else started looking too closely either.

McCree lingered as the meeting crawled to its conclusion. He seemed to have something on his mind. Genji got to his feet, and started stretching. He was delaying. Dilly-dallying. He’d been putting off a difficult conversation, and he knew it couldn’t be left much longer. It was part of the reason he’d asked Angela to act as his master’s escort during this meeting. He would have no excuse now to avoid her.

McCree leaned against the wall, sizing Winston up and down. Genji wasn’t sure how much the two had worked together. Blackwatch tended not to mix with regular Overwatch. Still, Winston was a singular entity. It was impossible not to know _of_ him. And Genji had fond memories of their time together taking down Doomfist. Winston had impressed him on that mission, and he’d said as much to McCree at the time.

Winston finally addressed the cowboy after typing at a console for several minutes, “Something you needed McCree?”

McCree glanced around, scratching behind his ear. He looked almost guilty as his eyes rested on Genji. He tried to appear busy with his stretches, though his curiosity was now piqued.

“You know Winston, it ain't exactly a comforting thought that some of your invites may have gone astray. We already got two new faces, like, what the fuck? How you know the UN ain't breathing down our neck waiting for us to step a toe out of line?”

Winston looked a bit surprised by the accusation, but the gorilla settled into a more relaxed stance on his knuckles in the next moment. “Well I’m pretty sure if the UN had seen my video they would have come down on us already. From what we can tell, nothing has made it back to any… less understanding parties.”

McCree massaged his forehead, “I mean, hell, Winston even if it went to everyone on the list, then _fine._ Who's gonna prevent one of them from ratting us out? What were you thinking, man?”

If a gorilla could look guilty, then Winston managed the trick, “…It was an impulse.”

_“Jesus—!”_

“Calm yourself, McCree.” Genji couldn’t let poor Winston flounder by himself.

“How can you say that after hearing that?” McCree rounded on him in a moment, almost like an angry bull at a rodeo.

“We are here now. It is as Winston said. The Petras Act is very clear. They would not wait for us to step out of line.”

McCree chewed at his lip, as if looking for something else to pick at and unravel. “Ain't you the _least_ bit curious how we got put on the recall list though? We left before that sign up was going round.”

The question did give Genji pause, now that it had been said aloud. He and McCree both looked at Winston, expectantly.

“Unfortunately, not everything made it when I transferred all the databases over to Athena. There’s a lot of meta-data missing due to the transfer process. I wouldn’t be able to confirm who put your names on the list.”

Genji shrugged, “It is a mystery, but not one I feel especially compelled to solve. I am happy to be back.”

“Yeah yeah. Mr. Inner Peace over here,” McCree’s mouth twisted into a scowl as he rolled his eyes. There was a silence, Winston flicking his eyes nervously between them, McCree looking ready to spit bullets.

“McCree. Come walk with me.” It took a moment, but McCree followed him into the abandoned hallways. Genji started a circuitous route towards the infirmary.

“What is your problem, McCree?” Genji crossed his arms, remembering Zenyatta’s words from the other day.

“I just wanna know what I’m in for! Is that so bad? You got some place to go when you're done with this, or if things go sideways. I mean, maybe I didn't appreciate the idea of having an escape-route enough back in the day. If this goes under… we fall under the cross-hairs of the law, this is it for me. This was my last resort. Wasn’t even supposed to come back.” McCree added the last part under his own breath, and looked mortified that he’d said it out loud. It was all the confirmation Genji needed that _something_ was eating at McCree. He lifted a brow beneath his visor.

“McCree I believe it was you who taught me the importance of ‘sorting my shit out.’ I would hate to see you not live by your own advice. What is troubling you?”

“That's the remarkable thing about human beings ain't it, Genji? We're all great at solving other people's problems. Not our own so much.” McCree let out the sort of breath that Genji could tell the other man wished it carried cigar smoke. “Look… Don't you have doubts about all this? I mean. You and me, we took off before things got bad last time, but it was already bad enough when we left.” Genji tilted his head, trying to follow the things McCree said. And the things he didn’t. He held in a sigh as he remembered Zenyatta’s advice. _Don’t push._ McCree would reveal things in his own time and not before.

“I suppose there is always a risk that an endeavor will not work out how you wished. That does not mean it's not worthwhile to try. Failure is an opportunity for growth.”

“You know it’s spooky to hear you say shit like that? What kinda water they got up in Nepal?” Genji laughed, but he didn’t want to let McCree get away scott-free with his deflection. He had a feeling that McCree had not confessed all that was troubling him.

“I am here if you need me. You have helped me throughout the years McCree. If anything troubles you, I would listen.” McCree’s jaw shifted from side to side, as though his teeth could not be parted. The man finally shook his head.

“Look. I’m fine. If I did have something bigger on my plate, in theory—”

“Uh-huh,” Genji said, unimpressed by the man’s dissembling.

“ _If_ there was something wrong, I would hypothetically let you know I’m dealing with it, but there ain’t anything right now. So don’t worry about me.”

Genji almost laughed, “McCree that is exactly the sort of thing that makes people worry about you.”

The cowboy scratched the back of his neck, “Well, do me a favor and don’t worry about me anyway. Where you headed. Ang? Pick up yer tutor?”

“…Yes,” Genji couldn’t help the tightness in his throat. Trust McCree to be so fucking observant when he was trying to diagnose the man.

“Tell Ang I need to see her after supper.”

“Shall I tell her why?” Genji titled his head, trying to see any obvious ailments, but coming up empty.

“She’ll know,” was all McCree said before tugging at the serape around his neck, and splitting off without as much as a by-your-leave.

Genji watched him go, and he felt the urge to run after McCree. To avoid his ultimate destination. Once the sound of spurs jangling had faded he squared his shoulders and took a direct route to the infirmary. He was many things, but not a coward.

If he still had palms, he was sure they would be sweating. The infirmary was quiet when he entered. He’d expected… banter. Conversation. Back and forth. Instead, Angela was busy at her terminal, and his master was floating thoughtfully in a meditative pose, the orbs rhythmically rising and falling with soft chimes. Genji cleared his throat. “I am back… The meeting has concluded.”

“Excellent,” Zenyatta linked his fingers together and the orbs returned to their usual orbit as he propelled himself in Genji’s direction. Like an object in space that had been pushed. “I shall await you outside, my student.” Genji almost protested, but Zenyatta gave a sort of half-turn of his head that stopped him.

Right.

Dr. Ziegler looked up from her terminal, concerned. “He should be guarded… technically speaking,” she didn’t look like she was happy with that pronouncement.

“Athena will alert us if he breaks his word,” Genji clenched and unclenched his hand several times. Neither of them spoke. Angela tapped half-heartedly at her screen.

“How was the meeting? Any developments I should know about?”

“I believe Winston was working on the brief. McCree and Lúcio will likely be headed to Rio soon. Vishkar is the owner of the property that was stolen.” Dr. Ziegler lifted her brows, but didn’t press the issue. “McCree said he would like to see you this evening. After he eats dinner.” She actually looked up from her screen. Genji cautiously approached her desk.

“I will be sure to make myself available. Thank you.”

“Anything wrong with our cowboy?”

Angela lifted a brow at him. “Even if there was, what makes you think I would be able to tell you privileged information?”

Genji spread his hands helplessly, “I’m worried about him?”

That got a smile out of her, and she huffed softly. “Well, he’s always been stubborn and thick-headed. I suppose I can see why it would be natural to worry about him. I can certainly pass along your concerns.” Genji shrugged.

“I think I have already done so. If you would like to do so again, you may.” He dropped his gaze down to her desk. Several different screen readers were scattered across the surface. A half-empty mug sat on a coaster with an image of the Löwendenkmal, the lion’s mournful visage just barely visible. Genji realized Angela had given up even the pretext of tapping at her screen.

“Zenyatta… said you wished to speak with me.” Genji nodded mutely. He’d thought this would be easier. He really had.

“How… have you been?” It was the lamest thing to say. It was a meager thing to say with someone he shared such an awful, tattered history with.

“Fine. My practice has been going well. And you?”

Genji wondered if he should take off his faceplate for this conversation. He decided against it.

“…Fine, I suppose.” He should have said how much he had grown, how much he had changed. It would have been a better segue into what he _really_ wanted to say.

There was a ghost of a smile pressed against Angela’s lips. “Is this the part where you ask me if I’m single?”

“That wasn’t what I was trying—”

“I’m kidding.” Her expression drained into something more like dread.

“Oh.”

“Sorry. I guess it’s still… I’m sorry.” She twisted the end of her ponytail around her fingers.

Genji still knew Angela well enough to know that she wasn’t apologizing for her attempt to lighten the mood.

“For what, exactly?” He had also learned enough about apologies over the years since that he wanted to hear a real one from her, if she was going to apologize for something.

Angela linked her fingers together and sighed, staring down at them. As if she might be able to piece together her words as easily. “When we met, you were my patient. It does happen but… the type of care you needed… How dependent you were on me, and how intense your needs were… It was inappropriate. If we had met and I was merely _a_ doctor who performed your physical, or patched you up when you came back from missions, that would be one thing, but… I was _your_ doctor. I was more than that. If I had been one of your _other_ doctors even, less involved in your care.” Dr. Ziegler sighed and looked up at him, her eyes locking to his. She knew better than anyone where his eyes were behind the visor. “I should never have put us in that position. I am sorry.” Angela twisted her hands together. “I know we have… attempted to make peace through letters and other contact but…”

“It is different in person,” Genji smiled behind his mask, feeling relief that she was just as nervous as he was, being alone together for the first time in years. “I understand.” There was an ache in his chest, beneath several layers of scar tissue. From multiple open heart surgeries and a transplant. He bowed his head.

“I apologize as well, for my actions. I caused you so much needless harm. It did not help me, and it was unfair to you. Even though I was struggling, I should not have settled for wounding you in place of those who inflicted pain on me. I am sorry, Angela.” It turned what was left of his stomach to remember his conduct during their affair. Or affairs. He broke up with her so often, perhaps their relationship should have been counted in terms of multiples. She should never have taken him back after the first time.

She gave him a shaky sort of smile. A small hopeful thing. “Does this mean the scary part is over now?”

Genji laughed, a little too hard. “Maybe, but I imagine that there is… more work to be done. Thank you for your apology, and for hearing mine.”

“Well, this is a good enough start for one day, I suppose.” Dr. Ziegler stood up, and extended her hand across the desk. As if welcoming a new patient into her office, instead of a man she knew inside and out in all senses of the word. He saw her hand was trembling. _Adrenaline?_ Genji reached out and softly grasped her hand in his.

“I suppose it can be,” Genji ducked his head once more, tenderness settling in beside the ache in his chest.

**[May 10, 2072]**

It was fairly easy to set up an “interview” with Dr. Vaswani. Strangely, she invited them to her apartment to conduct the meeting. It set McCree’s teeth on edge, but if they were going to discuss potentially sensitive shit, might as well not do it in the open. It had been a long time since he’d been to South America, Brazil in particular, so his Portuguese was rusty. What fucked him up the most were all the words that were the same in Spanish but meant something completely different here.

So far, no one had recognized him. McCree had dyed his hair—including his brows and facial hair—a dark auburn. He’d also changed up his facial hair into something a little more groomed and tied his hair back. He didn’t dare wear his usual cowboy getup, but he did have a wide-brimmed Outback-style hat and large, reflective shades that covered most of his face. His hat also had a discreet buckle where the leather braid was secured that would hyper-reflect light into any cameras, and obscure his mug from being picked up by facial recognition software. Lúcio had a more laid-back getup, but his disguise was more about not being recognized by his adoring fans. He also kept his subsonic audio tech up. McCree couldn’t follow everything, but basically Lúcio said that it kept people “chill.” He couldn’t argue the point. He was definitely feeling pretty loose, despite this being the first real even vaguely coordinated mission he’d run with another person in over four years.

They showed up at Dr. Vaswani’s doorstep right on schedule, in matching suits. McCree was willing to bet that Vaswani’s yearly rent could have paid for a good hovercycle. Maybe two. She opened the door and invited them in. McCree blinked a few times. The apartment was spacious, with tall ceilings but… mostly empty. This was beyond minimalist. She gestured for them to sit on a low bench by the front door in the entryway. There were a couple tall white vases filled with… sticks? Not actual plants. The kind of hoity-toity decor decision that McCree had never been able to fathom or understand.

Dr. Vaswani crossed her arms and spoke first, “Do not move from that spot. I demand to know your true intentions.”

McCree chanced the quickest glance at Lúcio from the corner of his eye. Lúcio tapped his foot, a slight frown twisting at his mouth before he turned on his megawatt smile, “Hey, uh, you invited us here to interview you, remember? Our startup—”

“Was very legitimate looking, yes. However, the paper you cited, that you loved so much, was never released to the public. That was proprietary Vishkar information. How did you receive it?” McCree sighed and let the back of his skull connect with the wall. Of all the stupid, _rookie_ mistakes… If McCree hadn’t spent over a decade in Blackwatch he might have felt more charitable towards Lúcio forgetting what he knew that he shouldn’t know. McCree felt stupid for not picking up on it during their prep. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

“Well,” Lúcio started, “That’s a bit sensitive. I _can_ say that we _are_ here to offer you a job. Just… not the one we talked about in our email.” Dr. Vaswani did not seem impressed by this, her face expressionless as she took in the information.

McCree tried to break the ice, again. “Yer lease is comin’ up, right? You been thinkin’ bout where to go after this? Had a nice chat with the concierge downstairs. Rent’s going up, right?”

Dr. Vaswani would not be cowed. She lifted her chin, and McCree couldn’t fault her bravery, staring down two men in her place who had lured their way in under (partially) false pretenses. Although, come to think of it, she wasn’t staring them down… exactly. More like between them. “I could live here quite comfortably for some time.”

“Sure you could,” McCree shrugged. “But I bet you're just itchin’ to do some work though, aint’cha? Makin’ the world a better place and all that? I know you. Doubt you’ve taken kindly to being kicked to the curb by yer former bosses.”

Dr. Vaswani looked him over, as if he were a particularly unimpressive piece of livestock. “If we have met I do not recognize you.”

McCree chuckled, “Not personally. By reputation.” And plenty of research, though not as much as Lúcio.

 _“You_ would know of my reputation?” Dr. Vaswani sounded skeptical. He didn’t blame her. McCree didn’t really look the bookish type. Even in this getup. He looked more like a flaky, executive hipster.

“Looks ain’t everything darlin’. Don’t be so deceived.”

Dr. Vaswani flicked her gaze between them again, though she kept lingering on Lúcio. “You… really came here to recruit me?”

“Yeah, bit of a secret though,” Lúcio was trying to be enticing, McCree could tell. “Pretty serious non-disclosure agreement going on here before we can tell you anything.”

Dr. Vaswani looked at Lúcio for several moments, then she turned away. “I’m not interested.”

“Well, there’s that,” McCree tipped his hat back, scratching beneath the brim.

“Vishkar will realize they made a mistake.” Dr. Vaswani’s words were soft, more to herself than to them. “My skills are too invaluable to be… Believe it or not I have submitted my resume to several other businesses. I do not need—”

“Yeah? How many of them have called you back?” Like hell McCree was going to let this opening go to waste. The good doctor’s silence spoke volumes. Her fists curled into tight balls. “You’ve been blacklisted my dear,” McCree was sorely tempted to light up a smoke, but he had a feeling Dr. Vaswani was about as uptight as Angela in that department.

“Blacklisted?” She whipped her head around so fast McCree felt a twinge of sympathy for her neck.

“Yeah, means Vishkar is sullying your good name. Ain’t no one gonna hire you with them putting their thumb on the scale like that.” Dr. Vaswani looked at him, _really,_ looked at him, though she jerked her head to one side a moment later. She seemed… shaken by hearing the truth out loud.

“Why would they…? I wasn’t… They did not tell me! They wished me well! They told me I could…” Vaswani was pacing now, the fingers of her prosthetics pinching and twisting at her hand made of flesh in such a way McCree, again, felt stirred to sympathy.

“I’m sure they did. How long you wanna stay holed up here, huh?”

“I don’t believe it…” _More like won’t,_ McCree thought privately.

“Why not? It’s been what… a year since the favela? How fast did you get sidelined after that?” Lúcio lifted a hand and a green disc of hard-light appeared in the air. He pressed his finger to it and Dr. Vaswani’s voice played.

_“We owe it to the citizens of the favela to pursue a safe but expeditious rebuilding. The designs we have in place will be a new home, a new step in the right direction. Architecture that can be reshaped in an afternoon, not weeks or months. That is the advantage of hard-light. Once we have the rubble cleared and the materials in place, it will be better than before, and these hardships an unpleasant memory. That is a promise from Vishkar.”_

“How’s that project going? Last time I checked _we_ were clearing out the rubble, and not Vishkar.”

Dr. Vaswani avoided Lúcio’s gaze. “I was… reprimanded… for my speaking out. That was hardly the most egregious public relations misstep I made.”

“I know,” Lúcio dropped his voice. “That’s why I’m here.”

Dr. Vaswani cast her gaze at Lúcio again, as if she were trying to fit together a jigsaw puzzle in her head. “…Correia dos Santos?”

“That’s right. Took you long enough to recognize me.”

Dr. Vaswani looked _furious._ “I recognize your gear. Stop using that technology at once. If you want me to come with you, you will do as I say.”

“Hey now, I just wanted to be sure everybody was calm. No misunderstandings.” Still, he flicked a switch at his hip and McCree felt something like… a pressure leave him. Like he’d taken off a pair of invisible noise-canceling headphones.

“I take it you two know each other?”

Dr. Vaswani crossed her arms, “His father.”

“Right, my father.” Lúcio’s voice was as hard as McCree had ever heard it. It was a bit of a surprise, honestly. “Died under pretty mysterious circumstances didn’t he, Dr. Vaswani? I’d hate to see the same thing happen to you. After a _lifetime of devotion to Vishkar._ ” The air was definitely more charged without whatever sonic soother Lúcio had employed.

“Your father understood _loyalty._ You are a thief. Why shouldn’t I just call the polícia?”

“Well, just dandy. This is goin’ real well,” McCree sighed. He should have known the new blood was hiding something up his sleeve. He hated walking into situations blind—or half-blind. He’d have to chat with Lúcio after this, if they didn’t end up in the slammer.

“C’mon Vaswani open your eyes. Before you end up dead like my father. Who, as you say, knew the value of _loyalty._ Look where he ended up. You had to have doubts, right? That’s why you were speaking out, before they canned you. We can help you find out what Vishkar’s really after, why they aren’t keeping their promises. You have to know better than anyone what they’re capable of.”

Dr. Vaswani walked over to one of the gigantic windows. She didn’t utter a word for several minutes.

“I still do not… entirely believe you, but if what you say is true… then I should come with you.” She sounded like she was still reasoning things out in her head as she said them. “If you can _prove_ to me what you say is true. I will join your cause, if it proves more just than Vishkar—if you can prove some greater misdeeds than the standard corporate fare. I want… I want to know if I have truly been… blacklisted.”

“A year without job offers seems pretty concrete to me,” McCree shrugged. Dr. Vaswani stared resolutely at a corner of the room.

“I have only been looking for new employment in the past three months.”

“Same difference. You shoulda been recruited or headhunted by somebody before now.” Frankly, he was amazed that less… savory elements hadn’t tried to court Dr. Vaswani. What would Talon do if they had her at their beck and call?

“My things,” she sounded a bit uncertain.

“You got things?” McCree looked around the spartan apartment. There were about three other pieces of furniture he could see in the gargantuan living space.

“What?” Dr. Vaswani’s brows knit together tightly.

“Nothing. Was a joke darlin’. You got ‘em here or you gonna ship em from elsewhere?”

“My things are here they arrived… Quite unexpectedly. Some time ago. They are still… in boxes.” She gestured to the closed door of one of the bedrooms.

“Ah. So they sent you your shit like yer an old ex, huh? Sucks. More convenient though, I guess. For us.”

“Hold still,” Dr. Vaswani moved back to the entryway and lifted one of the ultra minimalist vases, and detached a previously invisible disc from the base of it. Lúcio squawked.

“What the fuck!?”

“You could hardly think me so foolish to invite two strange men into my abode without taking a _little_ precaution, could you?” She moved over to the other vase on the opposite side and detached another disc, fitting them neatly into her prosthetic. Almost like a bracelet. Almost.

“…I take it that would have made a mighty fine light show, huh?” McCree wasn’t terribly familiar with hard-light technology beyond just the concept. It was the province of… well corporations and the ultra rich. Lúcio was the first person he’d ever seen use it up close and personal.

“Yes.”

“One that we would not have been around to enjoy, I take it?”

“Correct.” Dr. Vaswani lifted her prosthetic up, and the band of metal surrounding the inset lighting flickered, before dissolving into blue light, pulling back into the seams of her false palm. McCree was fascinated. Lúcio’s style of hard-light manipulation was very different.

Dr. Vaswani paused, looking thoughtful again. “My… credentials with Vishkar have been deactivated. However… I know how they are generated. And I know… two individuals who always use variations on the same password over and over. I have heard them give it to our IT department on multiple occasions.” Vaswani looked torn between disgust and trepidation. “If I give you this information… you can use it to search Vishkar’s databases… yes?”

McCree couldn’t help a grin, “It’s a damn good start.” He extended a hand. Dr. Vaswani looked down and blinked. “’S called a handshake, doctor.”

“No,” Dr. Vaswani shook her head. “Do we need to leave in order to find this information? Let us be gone.”

“Okay, all business then,” McCree sighed and shoved a hand in his pocket.

“You have questions. I have questions. Answers are needed before decisions can be made. If they have blacklisted me, however, then I will have no choice but to join you.”

McCree didn’t care for how… non-committal this whole affair was. Vaswani seemed like a decent enough person, at least. “What d’you think Lúcio?” The man had a much deeper study and understanding of the woman.

“I think we should get going while the getting is good.”

McCree shrugged. “Works for me. Alright doc, let’s get yer shit all rounded up. You want the couch or nah? Cause I ain’t carrying that.”

“I won’t need everything. Give me half an hour.”

There was half an hour of uncomfortable silence. McCree was half-tempted to ask Lúcio to put whatever groovy subsonic tunes had made the mood more bearable earlier, but that was decidedly a no-go. Still, he was a little surprised, when Dr. Vaswani appeared—precisely half an hour later with just a suitcase and two… not all that big cardboard boxes.

“This it?”

“This is all I need for now. I will either be returning, or I will have to return and sell or transport my things later.”

“Fair enough.” McCree hefted one of the boxes for her onto his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from [ here](https://thelongestjohns.bandcamp.com/track/off-to-sea) and now you all know my shameful addiction to sea shanties.
> 
> My beautiful autistic daugher is HERE! We are deffo closer to the "Hanzo fucking shows up" stage of things.
> 
> Also Fareeha, I have decided, is of Tlingit ethnicity through her dad. Jesse already knows this however, so it's not like she would just announce that to him in a conversation? I just want people to know that she has specific origins in this universe, even if Blizzard wont commit. She also suffers from the condition of cilantro/coriander leaves smelling/tasting like soap.


	3. This highway lived in my mind, and takes me back to the place that made me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is tough under the best of circumstances. Satya has not planned for the worst of circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satya has some sensory issues and executive dysfunction/self-care issues, some of which revolve around food and eating/not eating. Just as a heads up in case you experience any kind of disordered eating issues because it gets kinda rough. It’s contained in the second break after the flashback.

**[February 16, 2059]**

“You don’t have your license!?”

“This comes as a surprise?” Jesse squints up at Reyes through the open window of the hovercar. A brand new model, sleek and sexy in a pale aqua. Like something from an old movie about the future. It’s got enough juice to go 800 miles without needing a new fuel rod. A top of the line sort of car that Jesse never saw, even in Deadlock. They were more about hovercycles anyway, but he’s willing to bet if any of his old so-called buddies in supermax are still alive, they’d be pissing themselves with envy if they could see McCree now.

“Ay me,” Reyes grips his forehead with his hands, pulling back the beanie gripping his skull. “I suppose not, but fuck me for not realizing this sooner.”

“Why is it a problem if I don’t got a license?”

“I’m gonna let you sit there and figure out the problem with what you just said.”

“Well I can’t exactly go getting one and flash it around base can I? After the trouble you went through to doctor up my birth date. Which anyone can just look up if they feel like it.”

“We’re past the statutes of any consequences for that. Not quite as critical, but it’ll be nice if it stays under wraps.” McCree sighs. Always one step ahead of him. Doesn’t seem like there’s even a point in trying to get one up on Reyes. At least with Morrison he can manage the trick some of the time. “Get out of the driver’s seat.”

“What?” McCree grips the throttle, as if that would somehow prevent the veteran of the SEP program from ripping him out of the car if he chooses. “This thing’s got autopilot anyway.”

 _“Out.”_ Reyes jerks his thumb over his shoulder. Jesse reluctantly opens the door, slouching low in the driver’s seat.

“This is fuckin’ stupid. Been driving since I was fifteen. Done it all. Cars, hovercycles. Hell even gas engines! Bet more’n half the folks on the roadways ain’t ever touched the pedal of a rig powered by a combustion engine before!”

“Yeah, but just about all of ‘em have a license.”

Jesse huffs a bit as he all but rolls out of the car. “I got _a_ license. Got twenty of ‘em.” With twenty different names underneath his picture.

Reyes sighs deeply, claiming the space Jesse vacated. “You really make people want to shoot you, Jessito. It’s a bad habit.”

“You could never shoot me.”

“Says you.” McCree rolls his eyes and walks around the front of the hovercar. There’s a deep-seated urge to swipe the hood ornament as he passes it. Even though Reyes is looking right at him. He slides into the passenger seat, feeling like a dumb kid instead of a man old enough to drink in all 50 states.

“I’m not the one whose aim is so shit he has to use shotguns in order to pass the monthly weapons assessment.”

“See? I just need to get close enough to hit you. Then it’s over.” Reyes slices his thumb across his neck before starting the car.

“Guess I just need to see you first.” McCree chuckles, “’Sides you said you’d only shoot me if I ran again.”

“Hm. I suppose I did.” There’s a mild thrill in his stomach as Reyes engages the hover drive and the repulsors kick on, lifting the car from the ground. “Don’t make me keep my word.”

**[May 11, 2072]**

This was foolish.

On so many levels, Satya knew she was making a mistake, but she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Certainly she had money, but… she did not have a purpose, and if these people were correct she may never work again in her field. She clutched the box which held approximately half of the belongings she deemed necessary for the time being.

She didn’t speak or look at the other two for the duration of the flight, in case it invited conversation, though she did observe from the corners of her gaze. McCree, the American, went between sleep and tapping at a screen reader, occasionally chewing on an unlit cigar. Satya tensed each time he brought it to his lips. Full of anticipatory dread if he were to actually light up and smother the small space in the foul stench of his chosen vice. She couldn’t look at Santos’s son without feeling a white, incandescent rage that was neither useful nor appropriate for the situation. No doubt he would tell her that her loyalty was misplaced. _That remains to be seen._

In truth, Satya went with them in the end because they might be able to answer the questions that had been slowly eating away at her thoughts after the favela was destroyed.

She knew that Vishkar was capable of killing in the name of corporate espionage. How often had Sanjay reprimanded her for showing mercy? Was it really so unthinkable that they wouldn’t sabotage her career out of spite? Perhaps the only reason they had not sent someone to finish her off was because she had no longer been speaking out about the company to the press, and had no means to question affairs internally.

These people might give her a means to finally have her doubts satisfied—one way or another.

Her skin crawled at the uncertainty of her future. Of the change she had initiated on a whim that was a year in the festering. Satya closed her eyes and curled in on herself, resting her head against the cardboard. She closed her eyes and retreated to her inner world made of light. Not Utopea. This world was her own creation. Beautiful shapes, complex geometric relationships mapped out against a void of black. She lost herself in shaping the angles of of an ever increasing Sierpinski Triangle, expanding it in all directions, until it was the size of the Charminar. Each triangle could then be rendered as a pyramid, and she rotated the structure in her mind, until there was nothing but a solid, massive plane of light dwarfing her. A perfect square. Satya rotated it so that the disparate triangles were visible again, and reduced them into two dimensions. She threaded the triangles with lines comprised of angles, 60 degrees on each side. Then she reduced the space between angles, and the shape transformed into an elegant, perfectly symmetrical tree. She loved turning fractals into trees. She could still feel the fear inside her, and she drew more complex shapes, playing chaos games in her head, charting different rules and drawing different fractals from the footsteps of the traditional dances she loved.

She almost dropped the box when she was ripped away from the ever lengthening paths of shapes by the sound of jangling metal and a body dropping into the seat beside her. “You alright?”

Satya gripped the box tighter, and glared at the badge on the man’s hat. It was completely at odds with the plum suit he was wearing. She couldn’t fathom why he had a second hat, much less why he’d changed into this one. She hated how easily startled she was. Her heart was still racing.

“What kind of question is that?” She looked down at the box on her lap. “I have agreed to go with strange men to a strange place for strange reasons. Nothing is _alright.”_

The man beside her breathed out something of a laugh, “Well, guess that’s true. Figured I’d try to help, that’s all. You sure you don’t want our mix-master to put the music back on?”

“Extremely.” She had suffered enough of it working for Vishkar. A year away from the direct, omnipotent influence of that sonic technology had… clarified at least a few things, for as many doubts she had received in return. She hated that she wanted to accede.

“What about, like, regular music?”

“No,” she shifted in her seat, trying to inch away from him, a sort of dread creeping over her. What if their legs started touching? Or their arms? He was far too close.

“Cards?”

“What?” She stared at the space between his brows. A close enough approximation for eye contact. For most people, anyway.

“Cards. Something to pass the time.”

“I _was_ passing the time,” it was difficult to retreat back into that inner world with someone chattering at her. She felt resentment and annoyance build up under her skin. “Leave me alone.” She stared at the top of the box. She hunched her shoulders as far as they could go. Waiting for more words to fall. To her relief and surprise, the man beside her fell silent. He simply crossed his leg, flicked his spur, then crossed his arms. Satya felt a bit of tension leave her shoulders as she saw the man’s chin drop against his chest, evidently settling in for a nap. Again.

She closed her eyes, and pressed her brow against the too-rough cardboard, sketching shapes of light behind her lids.

\----

She waited until she was alone to cry. After she had picked out a room. Despite this being the path of her choosing, it was too much. She crawled into the closet, which was the smallest space available and shoved herself into the corner, the walls pressing against her shoulders. It wasn’t the right kind of pressure, nothing was, but it was small and dark and quiet.

She stayed in the small space for a long time, but eventually her body protested the press of drywall at uncomfortable angles. She took in the space. It was small. Possibly the smallest room she’d lived in, outside of her childhood. Satya frowned, and opened the boxes. She set everything in neat piles, grouped by type. Toiletries. Clothes. Electronics. She paced the edges of the room, taking in the dimensions. She glanced at a bare patch of wall, and set up a display of equidistant hard-light regular polyhedrons, each increasing in the number of faces from the last. She moved her piles around the room and the adjoining bathroom, unable to commit to where anything else should go. She could feel her stomach growl. She’d refused to eat on the flight over. Nothing they had was suitable for her constitution or her overly-picky tastes. Without thought, Satya flipped out her phone. She stared at the homescreen, a sort of dawning horror weighing on her. None of her usual food delivery services would be nearby. Was she even allowed to call on them? When she was living in the Architech Academy there were security protocols, and any food delivery services were barely allowed past the cul de sac in front of the building. Inside would be unheard of. She had no idea where any of the kitchens or foodstuffs were. Not that she could cook. She had not learned how, had not picked up the skill since being kicked out by Vishkar, which suddenly seemed like a critical flaw.

Surely, they had regular meals here. Someone would collect her to eat. Just like Vishkar. The Academy. She would simply need to wait. She felt dizzy. Her stomach suddenly felt unbearably empty.

Satya had less tolerance for hunger than she did as a child. There was a point of no return where it suddenly became unbearable, and she felt weak and nauseated. Like switch was suddenly thrown. When it felt like her stomach was collapsing with the force of a dying star. She didn’t know if it was the privation she had suffered in Hyderabad, or the fact that she had nearly starved herself before gathering the courage to navigate her life outside Vishkar. It had taken her several months and several instances of going hungry for days before Satya finally found a rhythm of food delivery and easy snacks that kept her sated and fed. It was a lesson hard won, and she wasn’t prepared to learn it all over again in a new environment. She slowly crumpled onto the bed.

_ <I am detecting high levels of stress in your vitals, Dr. Vaswani. Do you need assistance?> _

Satya gasped and gripped her stomach. The AI. She had forgotten. Dr. Vaswani had absorbed very little information since touching down.

_ <You seemed quite distressed earlier, but did not respond to my queries. I was uncertain if intervention was necessary, or if you wished for solitude before. Do you need assistance, Dr. Vaswani?> _

“Yes. I am hungry,” she felt hot. It was probably her blood sugar crashing to new, critically low levels. “How are… when are meal times?”

_ <There are no set meal times, but there are supplies in the kitchen. Agents will often coordinate and share meals on an informal rotating schedule, but you are free to go to the kitchen and prepare a meal at any time.> _

Something like despair lodged in Satya’s throat. She would starve before she could prepare a meal for herself. She didn’t know the first thing about preparing a meal. Perhaps they had snacks? Instant meals? More critically she felt too weak to stand.

“I think… if someone could just bring me…” Satya paused. What could she request that would fall neatly within the Venn Diagram of acceptable textures, tastes, smells, and the supplies these people had on hand? “Just some plain rice. Basmati if possible. Perhaps some fruit juice. I am… fatigued. I apologize.”

 _ <One moment.> _ Several moments passed. Satya turned her head to one side. _ <Someone will be along presently.> _

It seemed like an eternity, but Satya felt equal amounts of gratitude and dread when she heard the door hiss open. Embarrassment flooded her from head to toe. She was a hard light architect. She had a PhD in Applied Physics. One of the pioneers in her field. And unable to take care of herself. She heard two sets of footsteps. One light and heeled, the other heavy with a light jingle.

“Dr. Vaswani? I am Dr. Ziegler. I am a physician, I am just going to take your pulse, is that alright? Athena told me you were feeling unwell.”

Satya turned her head as she felt Dr. Ziegler’s weight sink onto the edge of the bed. She took stock of the cybernetic ports that Dr. Ziegler had covered. Satya wondered what sort of headset they keyed into. She settled her gaze where Dr. Ziegler’s blond ponytail was piled onto her head.

“If you must, I am just… fatigued from hunger.” Dr. Ziegler’s fingers are cool and too firm against her wrist.

“When did you last eat?”

“She refused to eat on the flight over. Shoulda had the sense to offer her some grub when we touched down.” McCree. She hears the jingle of his boots again, and she isn’t sure how to interpret his tone. Something low. Is he speaking strictly to Dr. Ziegler? Satya could smell the faint aroma of rice. A scent that almost wasn’t there, but it made her mouth water anyway.

“I don’t recall. Before the flight. I am… particular.”

“Do you have any dietary sensitivities?” The back of Dr. Ziegler’s hand rests on her brow and Satya has to let out a breath. It had been a long time since she had been touched. It was… not unpleasant. For now.

“No. Yes. I don’t,” Satya sighed. “It is complicated. I do not have allergies, if this is what you are asking.” She was too tired, too dizzy, and too nauseous for this conversation.

“Gluten or dairy sensitivities? Auto-immune issues with certain food groups?”

“No.”

“Alright, well I think you’re fine to start eating. Nothing seems seriously wrong that food shouldn’t fix. Do you need help sitting up? Jesse, hand me that bowl, go find another pillow from somewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

“Here, this juice should help you too, careful now.” Dr. Ziegler’s grip on her neck was uncomfortable and made her heart spike in panic, but the rim of the glass prompted her to swallow down some sort of pale orange juice. There was a soft, building sort of sweetness to it that Satya recognized as Agave, and… peaches? She took small sips, careful not to drink too much. This was humiliating. She hadn’t had such a lapse in self-care this poor in months.

She heard the jingle of McCree’s boots again, absent the heavy footfalls. “Gotcha yer pillow. Seems clean—” Dr. Vaswani felt her muscles lock into place. _Seems clean!?_

“Thank you, McCree. You may go.” Dr. Ziegler said the words harshly, and Satya flinched. It was like lightning behind her eyes, a flash of silver clawing at the inside of her skull. “Sorry dear,” Dr. Ziegler said the words as an apology, a near whisper. It was enough to make Satya wish she still had her headphones from Vishkar. Even knowing that they had always been sending subsonic signals through them. Perhaps she could design a new headset that could still block out harsh noises efficiently.

“I hear ya. I know when I’m not wanted.” _Is he joking?_ It was difficult for Satya to decipher the intentions of others, at times. Other times she could tell that someone was not being serious, or making a joke, but she couldn’t connect the dots and find the humor. With Dr. Ziegler’s help Satya eventually felt the strength return to her limbs, and the nausea receded. She was able to sit up and feed herself which did not lessen any of the humiliation she felt.

“Dr. Vaswani, in the future, if you need anything, please tell Athena right away. I understand you must be under a great deal of stress, this sudden arrangement, but neglecting your health and your well being out of…” Dr. Ziegler trailed off but Satya could fill in the word _spite_ well enough. “I will ask again, do you have any dietary sensitivities that we need to be aware of?”

Dr. Vaswani sighed. “There are simply things I… cannot eat. I have always been too picky.” A constant irritation even at Vishkar where her status afforded her that luxury. She didn’t _want_ to reject so many foods others seemed to enjoy with little issue. Satya could envision a much happier life for herself if she enjoyed things such as dried fruits. Or if she could eat spicy food without getting heartburn for hours. “I am sensitive to tastes and textures of many foods.” It had taken Satya years to figure that much out. As a child she had not been able to distinguish if it was the texture or taste of certain foods that displeased her. Now she could at least tell when it was one or the other. Or both.

“Can you provide us a list of what you will eat? We will certainly do our best to accommodate you, while you are here.” Satya nodded, spooning more of the rice into her mouth and taking a sip of juice again, concentrated calories.

“I am sorry for the trouble.”

“It isn’t any trouble,” Dr. Ziegler waved her hand. “Let’s make sure you know your way around, however, so you can find the kitchen. Athena.” One of the empty walls flooded with navy, and blue lines traced a map. Satya blinked several times, her eyes tracing around each line and corner, memorizing the shapes, calculating what the volume of the circular, connecting hallway that cut through the entire map would be if it were a torus. She barely heard Dr. Ziegler’s explanation of each point of interest.

\----

Satya gave them all the information she had about Vishkar’s systems. What software was used for what purpose. Things she would have rather died than reveal only a year before. All there was to do was wait for the AI to do some digging. To see if there was any truth to what these people suspected. There was a tense, four hour period where Athena ran her algorithms to attempt and decipher the best time to attempt using the passwords as well as what variations to use. A Vishkar employee only needed to go through a cycle six times before they were allowed to recycle an old password. They had two passwords, twelve possible variations between the two users. Password resets were set on a thirty day cycle, both since thrown off from their date of hire by calls to the IT department. Three incorrect attempts permissible before the passwords would be locked out. While it might be logistically ideal to force once of their potential users to enact a password reset, discretion was a far preferable solution. For everyone involved.

Satya did not join the few in the rec room, gathered around some inane, absurdly long movie. The big German, McCree, Lúcio, the Korean gamer-turned-pilot whose neon accessories hurt to look at almost as much as Lúcio’s, the burly girl with the long hair and arms built like a bull elephant. Her father—Torbjörn?—had engaged her in a discussion of engineering, which filled some of the time, but if he was attempting to build a rapport, Satya didn’t recognize the attempt. She got frustrated instead, over a trivial, theoretical application of salient pole rotors in a survivalist environment. An ever popular subject for engineers of all sorts. _What would you do if you were stuck on an island and all you had were the scraps from the Omnic Crisis? How would you rebuild society?_ Just as Satya was about to make a heated reply about his lack of foresight for overlooking the flux distribution, a smooth voice cut in overhead.

 _ <I have successfully gained access to Vishkar’s communications and systems. Disseminating data now. Agents please review as much data as you can and be prepared to meet in five hours to discuss the initial findings.> _Satya felt something curl in her gut like fear, like nausea. She traced a rectangle in the air, and a screen of hard light appeared before her. She ignored Torbjörn’s impressed noise, and she began to read. She went through emails first, starting with the two associates she had given up. She curled her mouth in distaste as she immediately discovered one of them was arranging an extramarital affair on company time. Disgusting.

The next five hours passed in a blur, the screen reader in front of her face. She looked desperately between the corporate espionage and office gossip to try and find some mention of herself.

Three and a half hours in she finally found it. Tucked away. Hidden behind a nickname she had overheard far too often, but never once had been uttered to her face. Satya understood enough about human relations to know it was not a fond nickname, if they weren’t willing to let her in on it or say it to her face. Four simple words in the middle of a longer chain. _Raani’s not coming back._ Seeing it on screen left her feeling breathless, like a hand was closing around her throat. She had no one to speak to, but Satya knew any attempt to say anything would be pointless.

Satya Vaswani had learned long ago that her emotions choked her and prevented all speech when she got this way. Anger and sadness stemmed her voice the most. Vishkar had not skimped on their physical education at the Academy. There was dancing and yoga in addition to other physical pursuits. She still remembered her yogi informing her, matter-of-factly that her throat chakra was blocked.

Satya faithfully did her exercises, she still did them every morning. The fish, the plough, the baby cobra. It did not correct her blocked chakra when she became angry or sad. Satya had never officially been diagnosed as having autism spectrum disorder, but the differences between herself and others were plain enough to see. It didn’t bother her, aside from the general unease and difficulty of not-quite fitting in, but her reading in the past year helped her make more sense of her strengths and shortcomings. It certainly made more sense of her non-verbal episodes than blocked chakras. Right now she could apply several of her strengths to the task at hand. Her analytical mind, her attention to detail, her all-absorbing focus. She could use it all to find answers.

\----

It was late, by the time they gathered for a meeting. The only absentees were Mercy and Zenyatta. McCree felt bad that the doc got the babysitting gig twice in a row. Athena kicked things off, going over her methodical mapping, highlighting conversation chains and a general timeline of Vishkar’s various projects. McCree had mapped out the latter for himself, trying to figure out where the company’s interests lay. Lots of pies all over the globe, but none so public as Rio. Especially now.

Winston cleared his throat nervously, “Uh, we’re still combing through everything, but I haven’t spotted anything too out of the ordinary yet. The specs on some of their tech is very impressive however. I might do some testing later and see if I can apply some of these methods to my own projects…” McCree sighed. Trust Winston to get distracted by the sciency shit. “I believe you were looking for proof of being blacklisted, Dr. Vaswani—”

“I found it,” she cut him off abruptly.

“Oh, uh, good. I mean, not _good,_ good, but… I see.” McCree sighed again and rubbed his forehead.

“Dunno if they’d have these communications here, or somewhere separate, but I didn’t see much about the heist. A bit of insurance info. No communications from Interpol or any kind of law enforcement agency that I could see,” McCree shrugged. “Just thought it was interesting, since they said they were cleared to mention Talon by name on the tube.”

“This guy Korpal likes horses. He might have a gambling problem we can exploit. I only go for games that have like, actual skill involved, you know? Dude’s begging to be a loser.” Trust the ex pro-gamer to hone in on the man’s hobbies. Not that McCree disapproved. He’d noted that little weakness himself as he skimmed.

“He might end up making a little side-trip while he’s on his next trip. One of the fancy new casinos there offers horse-betting. State of the art, remote, and ‘round the globe. Place a bet on any track on earth, so goes their claim.”

Dr. Vaswani looked up sharply, “Where is Sanjay?” ‘ _Sanjay’?_ Evidently the doc knew the man on TV pretty well. McCree tucked that tidbit of information away, just in case it became relevant later.

“Korpal? Says here he’s headed to Monaco in a couple weeks. Some kind of industrial expo. Lot of movers and shakers gonna be there.”

Dr. Vaswani shook her head, “That is not possible.”

“Pardon?”

“Sanjay is in the middle of overseeing the rebuilding of the favela, and the installation of one of our hard-light cities. He cannot afford to be off site, especially at such a critical juncture of the project after we’ve lost a shipment of integral materials to get the project up and running. If any meetings are to happen they must come to him.” She drummed her fingers on the table, worrying at her lower lip.

“You got something else Vaswani?” The woman shot Lúcio a venomous glare, but she managed to unclench her jaw a moment later.

“There is… a lack of activity that concerns me. I had not been able to see it before, while I was still with the company. There is no sense of urgency to this project. We… Vishkar is far behind the projected schedule of the project. It makes no sense.”

“That’s going to cost the company money, in the long run, isn’t it?” McCree was almost used to Morrison’s new voice. Almost.

“Yes,” Satya seemed… uncomfortable at being the center of attention. “We went to great lengths to secure this contract—”

“Like murder, arson, and worse,” Lúcio said darkly.

“That was _not_ my doing—”

“Please,” Winston was wise enough to cut off the impending argument. McCree had to give him credit there.

“It makes no sense to me,” Satya shook her head. “I am uncertain why we would be dragging our feet like this.”

“Maybe you guys never intended to finish the project,” Lúcio spat the accusation quickly.

Dr. Vaswani sighed and rolled her eyes, “The benefits that might be gained from intentionally delaying this project are far outweighed by shareholder losses and monetary costs. There is no financial sense to it.”

“Well, if they have sinister intentions, I doubt that we would find it neatly spelled out on these servers,” there was a general murmur of agreement to Reinhardt’s booming assessment.

“Pretty expensive little smokescreen, but maybe that’s all this is?” Jesse scratched under the brim of his hat.

“I believe Sanjay once told me that the executives have their own isolated servers for additional security. His own interfacing with them is limited, from my understanding, at least.”

_ <That seems unlikely, Dr. Vaswani. Sanjay Korpal has far less data on the servers I have access to than other employees of similar rank and tenure.> _

The good doctor parted her lips… and shook her head again, “Then I do not know. In any case, for our agreement… this is sufficient proof to me that something is wrong. I will go through whatever application or security screening process you require. I will join you. I wish to understand what is happening.”

“Oh, uh, excellent. Uh, Lena, did you want to get Dr. Vaswani started with the on-boarding process?”

“Sure thing luv!” Lena bounced out of her chair, and McCree had to bite back a scathing comment about lax recruitment standards. _It’s why you flew out to Rio in the first place, you dipshit. This was the point._

“Least we have some kind of screening process, I guess,” he muttered under his breath, unable to keep _all_ his opinions to himself. Man. He’d worked alone _way_ too long, talking to himself at the drop of a hat like this. He needed to break this habit fast.

“What was that, Agent McCree?”

Jesse cleared his throat and threw an arm over the back of his chair, before addressing Winston, “We gonna crash the party in Monaco or what?”

“I don’t want to commit our resources just yet. Speaking of…” Winston waited until Lena and Dr. Vaswani were out of the room entirely. “We uh… do need to discuss resources. My _allowance_ as dictated by UN only extends so far. We’ve managed to offset any extra energy costs by implementing more solar panels, but we definitely need more funding. Some of you have been generous enough to donate your private funds in the short-term, but that isn’t sustainable.” Winston cleared his throat, adjusting the tiny frames on his nose.

“So what’s the plan then, Winston?” Brigitte leaned forward in her seat, clearly eager for action of any kind.

“There’s plenty of opportunities for mercenary work out there. Bounty hunting too, we can screen the jobs out there, make sure they’re worthy causes… And, well, I’ve got a few inventions but… I haven’t been able to make any commercial profit off of them being…” a giant gorilla that was carefully legislated around, lest he accidentally set off a chain of animal rights legal crises or give too much credence to omnic rights groups fighting to improve legislation across the globe. “Me. Maybe one of you could… I mean it would be a ways down the road, and I’d rather make these available open source, but… we could really use the money.”

“Aw, hey, we’ll wait on that one, okay Winston?” Fareeha smiled encouragingly at him. “Besides, that’d be long-term thinking anyway, right?”

“I suppose you’re right,” the gorilla let his shoulders relax for a moment, a low rumble accompanying the motion.

“Reckon Genji and I can get up to some trouble for ya,” McCree grinned over at the ninja who nodded in curt agreement.

“Indeed. It’s been some time since we have gone hunting together.”

“You still up for bounty hunting? With the price on your head?” Winston seemed surprised. McCree shrugged.

“Hasn’t stopped me yet. Should go better, with someone to help watch my hide.”

“I’ve still got some fight left in these old bones. I can go anywhere you need,” would there ever be a day when hearing Morrison string two or more sentences together wouldn’t make McCree angrier than a bull at a rodeo? God he hoped so, if only so he didn’t get himself shot on the field some day in the future.

“Athena’s pulled up some leads. She’ll forward you all the lists to your data readers. For the bounties we’re also trying to be mindful of transportation costs. No point in going if we have can’t make up for the cost of fuel or local transportation. If you want to volunteer for anything, just let Athena know or come see me.” McCree flicked open his new screen reader, like nearly everyone around the table. Lúcio was abstaining, McCree noted from the corner of his eyes. Ms. Song, however, was avidly scrolling through her reader in a way that roused memories of a much younger, less-stable Genji. Too-eager by half to throw himself into their bloody work. It was… unsettling to see that in someone so much younger than the ex-yakuza had been. McCree glanced over at Genji. When he was certain the ninja was looking, he gave the barest motion of his head towards Ms. Song. The softest tell. McCree took Genji’s answering twitch to mean he’d noticed. Good. Something they could dive into later. For now, they could look at targets. McCree already spied several he’d wanted to catch, but never could manage on his own. Some targets were too smart and too dangerous to take on by himself, and he hadn’t survived this long by daring to think otherwise. He’d have to go over the list with Genji, if they didn’t get snagged for a larger merc op.

“Uh, anyway, I guess you’re all dismissed for now? We’ll keep combing through the information we got from Vishkar, and keep tabs on them as long as we can manage. I don’t doubt they’ll get wise to our presence and sever our connection eventually. They shouldn’t be able to trace back to us, however.” Winston seemed confident enough with that pronouncement, and McCree didn’t know enough about computers or hacking to say any differently. He imagined an AI might know a thing or two about covering its tracks. McCree tapped his screen reader once on the table to collapse it and headed out for a quick smoke before he holed himself up in his room to research potential targets. He and Genji could go over targets in the morning.

\----

Jesse managed to fix breakfast for himself the next day without an audience. If McCree had timed breakfast so that he’d be cooking when a fair number of the folk where were scheduled for training sims… well… McCree always hated early morning sims anyway. Upside to potentially partnering with Genji was the two of them wouldn’t take much practice before they could pass muster to be cleared for duty together. McCree wasn’t worried. He used more of the cilantro Pharah had planted for him to garnish his huevos rancheros. Coming back wasn’t all bad. His fare on the road had varied from edible to alright. Mostly it had been food of the fast variety or out of cans. It was nice having real food with real herbs and spices again. Even if Pharah wouldn’t share her secrets for Ana’s fūl he should still try to pick up a new recipe. It’d been, what? Five or six years since he picked one up? Probably about time.

He’d just settled down at the counter, with a plate in front of him when he heard footsteps at the door. _Hm. Interesting._ He’d half-expected Genji to materialize, after his bitter complaints, but instead Dr. Vaswani was hovering at the doorway, looking more than a little lost. It was strange seeing her so immaculately put-together, but walking around with bare feet.

“Need something to eat, doc? Just made some breakfast, if you want a share. Plenty of it.” He’d made enough to share, figuring Genji or some of the other agents might want a share after training.

Dr. Vaswani shook her head. “No. Spices do not agree with me.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. Like poor M-Soldier. He’s got a… medical thing though. Think the man lives mostly on spite with all the shit he can’t eat anymore.” The SEP program had some nasty side and unpredictable side-effects for a lot of the survivors. Morrison’s fate was to subsist on the world’s most blandest and limited diet of food. As best as McCree had figured roughly half of the food groups out there Morrison couldn’t eat because his body started attacking itself, and the other half that he could eat his guts didn’t absorb properly. Man could eat most livestock-based proteins—unseasoned, and about fourteen other things that he could probably remember, if pressed, under torture. Even McCree didn’t have the heart to rub the man’s face in the fact that he couldn’t eat real food anymore. Usually. Unless he _really_ deserved it, but he had to be a pretty big shitheel before Jesse was willing to sink that low.

“It is not… medical as such for me. I do not enjoy heartburn for hours.”

McCree shrugged, “Antacids don’t work?” He studied Vaswani as he shoveled some more egg into his mouth. She seemed… something close to stunned.

“I… have never tried. I am unsure.”

McCree shrugged, “Might work. Hell, I’ll let ya in on a lil’ secret.” He gestured conspiratorially for Vaswani to come closer. She didn’t. McCree let her in on his secret anyway. “Got a hip flask of Mylanta stashed away for desperate situations. Not as young as I used to be over here.”

Vaswani studied him for several minutes. McCree tried giving her a smile, to show he was trying to be friendly. The gesture seemed to confuse her more. “Anyway, uh, feel free to help yerself. Plenty of grub in these parts. Probably have something to suit you.”

“Thank you,” she said the words stiffly, and they sounded unfamiliar on her tongue. McCree hid a smile into his huevos rancheros. His smile faded as Dr. Vaswani continued to restlessly search through the cupboards and fridge. She finally came away with an apple, which she started peeling over the sink.

“Something wrong, doc? You not find what you were looking for?”

“It is fine. This will suffice.”

“Hardly call that breakfast, myself. Real talk, is there enough food here that you’ll eat and not starve for the next three days?”

It took Dr. Vaswani a long time to answer, but once the last hint of skin was gone from the apple she glanced in McCree’s direction, “Doubtful. I… am not much for cooking. I prefer having meals delivered if possible. Is that an option here?”

“Not really. Even if there was a delivery service, we can’t really have folk up here on a regular basis, snoopin’ around.”

Dr. Vaswani let out a heavy sigh. “I see. Then I will need to… consider my options.” McCree felt a twinge of sympathy. Poor Vaswani’s world had been turned completely upside down. He knew the feeling, though he wasn’t sure who was less grateful for the change. Her or a young Jesse McCree too scared to shed the skin he’d been forced to adopt for survival. Maybe that new recipe he wanted to pick up could be something to her liking.

“Tell you what, I’m just about done here. We need a resupply. I’ll take you along, and we can stock up on whatever grub is good for you. Sound good?”

“…It does _seem_ logical,” Vaswani finally stated. McCree supposed he’d have to take that for agreement. They finished their respective breakfasts in silence. McCree put a lid over the rest of the dish in case someone (like Genji) came along and decided to help themselves. He was highly skeptical he’d have leftovers to take care of when they got back.

“Alright, Athena, could you please download the supply list to my reader?”

_ <Done.> _

“Perfect, you ready Dr. Vaswani?”

“Once I have shoes, yes.”

“Alright. Meet you in the hangar. You know where that is?”

“I believe so. The AI will assist me if I lose my way.”

 _ <The AI has a name.> _ Athena cut in smoothly. Vaswani nearly jumped. She stared at the ceiling before looking at McCree for guidance. Jesse shrugged.

“I will meet you there.”

\----

“McCree!” The call echoed through the empty spaces and abandoned vehicles. There were plenty of fancy toys here, more than McCree had expected, but there was an awful lot of empty spaces in the hangar that McCree remembered being filled with various transports. Pity most of ‘em were gone. Would have been nice to have more fuel cells and parts to cannibalize.

Jesse looked over his shoulder, towards the synthetically-tinged voice. He was perched on the hood of the hovercar cleared for supply runs. It was an older model. Over a decade old, and well used before they’d picked it up. They tried to limit its use, to avoid detection from the law. Even with their modifications to the vehicle, they didn’t need to draw attention to themselves.

“Hey Genji, you coming to town with us?”

“Nah, but I wanted to make sure we had plans to discuss bounties later.” McCree felt a smile creep over him. He was surprised how eager he was to get back in the saddle.

“Sure, sure. First thing when I get back. There are some names I’m itching to take off that list but wasn’t able to get to on my own.”

“We’ll have to do some training sims to get approved. I notice you haven’t logged any hours yet. Lazy.”

McCree chuckled, “C’mon hon, have a little faith in me. I’m sure we’ll clear the tests in no time.” He supposed he should have been a bit thankful that he had that shootout on the train to boost his confidence after losing the hand. He was still a crack shot while right-handed, like before. Might have to pick up some hours with a sniper rifle though, to get those skills back up to snuff.

“Hm. We shall see. I imagine we have both changed, in the intervening years.” Genji crossed his arms, every bit as haughty as the day he was born.

McCree laughed again, “Yeah, you’re Mr. Inner Peace. You gone pacifist on me? Think I remember how to carry your weight. It’ll be fine.”

“Oh. I see how it is. Now you have made a date with the training room floor, McCree. I am looking forward to this.”

Jesse grinned. At least there were some things that felt like the old days that didn’t hurt too badly. “How’s the new blood?”

“Interesting. Hana and Soldier are surprisingly well-matched. Very in tune to one another. She needs to work on her communication skills however. I think you were right, yesterday. There is something… troubling her. I hope it does not consume her, as it nearly did me.”

“Bloodthirsty?”

Genji nodded once, “And reckless.”

“Hm. Dunno where I’ve heard that before,” McCree smiled, but it faded quickly. He’d seen too many agents flame out like that. He and Genji had gotten lucky, really. Hopefully they could figure out a way to keep Ms. Song from going down a bad road. “Brigitte was there too, right?”

“Mm. Inexperienced, but she has some solid foundations. She has excellent protective instincts. I think she will do well. I can see Reinhardt’s influence all over her style.”

“Let’s see, who else was there? Was it Reeha or the DJ with you guys?”

“Amari. She fights and communicates well, as to be expected.” McCree didn’t miss the way Genji stood to attention at the name.

“You know she ain’t her mom, right?”

Genji shrugged, “I suppose. I was not as close to the Amaris as you were. I get the sense that Fareeha does not enjoy my company.”

McCree leaned back, his metal hand making an absurd amount of noise as he braced it on the hood of the car. “What’d you do to her?”

“Nothing!” Genji rolled his head, to indicate he was rolling his eyes, before he shrugged. “It is fine. I am sure we will eventually see eye-to-eye.”

“Hm. Maybe I gotta set her straight then,” McCree scratched his beard thoughtfully. Didn’t sit right with him that Fareeha and Genji didn’t get along at all.

“I don’t know that an intervention is required,” Genji said mildly.

“Nah, nah. I’m curious now. You got my interest piqued so I’mma put my nose in it, like the almost-older-brother I am to her. And you. My job to make sure all the younger siblings get along, right?”

Genji snorted lightly. “If you say so. I would say you have been neglecting this particular duty for awhile.”

“Shush. How was I supposed to know you and Pharah weren’t getting along famously?”

“To be fair, I did not ‘ _get along famously’_ with most people in my early Blackwatch days.”

“Ah, is that what it is?” McCree sucked on his teeth thoughtfully. It made sense, if that’s all Fareeha remembered of Genji.

The man shrugged, “I don’t know. I do not recall giving her any special grief, but that means little where my memory is concerned.”

“Well, we’ll see, I guess. Damn, I have no idea how I didn’t pick up on that all this time.” McCree clucked his tongue at himself and drummed the hood of the car, intrigued by the sound of metal and fiberglass striking one another.

“It doesn’t really matter, McCree. As I said, she is a professional. I am sure we will be able to work together given time.”

“Hope you’re right, but still, I might as well do what I can to ease the way. Gotta say though, shocked to see you here.”

“I wanted to be sure that I caught you before you left, that’s all. Why?”

McCree grinned, and slid off the hood of the parked hovercar. He leaned down just a tad and tapped Genji’s faceplate about where his forehead was. “Cause I gone and made those huevos rancheros you were pesterin’ me about, and there’s a heaping helping left for anyone that gets at it.”

“McCree! How _dare_ you call us friends when you were keeping knowledge about perfectly good huevos rancheros from me! Fuck off, I don’t need your help with anybody. We’re not friends anymore— _especially_ if there isn’t anything left for me once I get to the kitchen.”

Jesse bent over laughing, Genji was already running across the vast hangar towards one of the doors that would lead him into the base proper. He lifted his metal hand to cup his mouth, “Better run, ninja-butt! I left ‘em up fer grabs. First come, first serve!” He chuckled softly as Genji dipped his head lower and put some extra, unnatural speed on it.

The hangar seemed especially gloomy after Genji was gone. The place was twilight dark, the smallest possible light illuminating the immediate area around the car itself. That’d change once the doors were open, but… McCree didn’t like the sudden sensation he was alone inside a crypt.

Minutes passed by, long enough that he started to wonder if Vaswani had gotten lost, or just decided to ditch him. He almost jumped when he heard the first sound of her footsteps, and then he felt relief wash over him, shaky and loose. The keystick nearly fell out of his trembling fingers.

“Was about ready to send out a search party. You ready?”

“As much as I can be,” Vaswani still seemed… subdued. Maybe that’s just how she was? _We’ll see if we can’t get her to perk up a bit once we get a few creature comforts on base._ McCree held up the keystick. It almost seemed toy-like, with its vaguely triangular grip, but the spring-loaded button at the end was loaded with all sorts of electronics and readers that locked in place and made the hovercar go. They had stripped the unit from the need for fingerprint, though that was standard for this particular brand of hovermobiles. A subtle anti-omnic gimmick wrapped up neatly in guise of security to further the already overzealous biometric data surveillance of the era. No thanks.

“You wanna drive? I don't mind it but the less my fake IDs are tested, the better.” Not that he expected to get pulled over. Dr. Vaswani didn’t even make a move towards the keystick.

“I can't.”

“Here? You don't got an international license?”

“Anywhere. I never learned how to drive,” Dr. Vaswani shrugged.

“Never!?” McCree couldn’t help gawking a bit. It seemed unthinkable. Woman of Dr. Vaswani’s capabilities unable to drive? How did something like that _happen?_

Satya stiffened as though she'd grabbed something hot and narrowed her eyes in that way when something was making her angry. “I never needed to. My transportation has always been arranged and, the few times I have needed it, public transportation was more than sufficient.”

“Must be nice to live in a big city with accommodations like that.” McCree hadn’t grown up with public transport. That was something he encountered much later, in Blackwatch. Though, to be fair, a lot of his transportation had been covered for him. Like Vaswani.

“Besides, even when I was old enough to buy a car I would have had nowhere to put it. I certainly wasn't going to pay exorbitant no monthly fees for parking on top of all the other costs of owning a vehicle, _and_ enroll myself in driving school.” _Another neat trick to keep you dependent on 'em._ “What is that look?” If Dr. Vaswani had not deciphered his expression as pity, McCree wasn't going to elucidate her.

“Yeah, see we gotta learn ya how to drive a car then.”

“Must we?” Dr. Vaswani made a face as if McCree had suggested she muck a stable.

“You should at least know how to operate a vehicle in case of an emergency.” If there was one thing McCree was good at, it was recognizing people’s motivations. And Vaswani was definitely a person rooted in rationality.

“I suppose that is logical,” Dr. Vaswani conceded the point but she didn't sound happy about it.

“It doesn’t have to be today,” McCree chuckled, unlocking the hovercar with the press of a button. He crammed himself into the driver’s seat before moving it back to give himself as much legroom as possible. “God damn... Who drove this thing last, Lena? Fuck’s sake…”

“The grocery store is enough of an adventure for one day,” Dr. Vaswani said the words so quietly, McCree almost missed them as the engine block hummed to life and the repulsors kicked on. Almost.

McCree engaged another button, and the hangar doors screeched to life. He didn’t miss the way Vaswani flinched in the passenger seat, and McCree stopped them as soon as they had enough clearance to get out. For the first time in his life, McCree did not flick the radio on as soon as he hit the roadway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for more help picturing Satya's mathy brain check out [these](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/19/Tetrix_projection_fill_plane.svg) [links](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sierpinski_triangle#/media/File:Sierpinski_tetrahedrons.stl) [here](https://github.com/ruggiero/arve)
> 
> As best I can tell Raani is a nickname used for a woman who is "a total diva." I imagine it has both positive and negative connotations like the word does in English, but you know if it's something people use to refer to you behind your back it's deffo less of a fun in-joke between friends. If I'm off-base and you know, lemme know.
> 
> This one was tough. A lot of my experiences are sort of distilled into Satya here. I can only imagine that as a brilliant, autistic young woman whose life skills were intentionally left under-developed she has a lot to catch up on bc I was late for a lot of milestones and I had support and shit behind me. So yeah. Things'll get better tho. And we are officially one step closer to Hanzo showing up. He's not showing up next chapter but he will be mentioned at least. The same amount of stuff is happening between now and his appearance as it was before... it just made more sense to have this part split into two chapters.
> 
> Chapter title from "No Room in Frame" by Death Cab for Cutie. Also hit me up on [tumblr, if you want!](http://liquidlyrium.tumblr.com/)


	4. Hope is a four letter word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji decides that it is time for him to confront his own past, while McCree avoids his.

**[June 28, 2065]**

McCree watches as Genji sharpens his blade. The short one. The one he keeps at the small of his back. The wazi-something-too-difficult-to-remember. Katana. Tanto. Those are easy. Someday he might remember the other thing, but not now.

“Penny for yer thoughts, Shimada-san.”

Genji snorts, a blast of static behind the mask. “You can drop the ‘san.’ You are older than me, my senior in work, and a foreigner.”

“Fine. Penny for your thoughts there, Shimada.”

Genji stares down the edge of his blade, inspecting his handiwork. “My father never did trade with Talon. Their interests were not aligned. It seems the elders have a different opinion. It does not matter to me. I am pleased that the goals of this mission align with my own.”

Jesse tips his hat back with his thumb and scratches at his bangs. “The elders? Thought yer brother was running the show now.” Since leaving Hanamura McCree hasn’t kept up with what the Shimada clan was up to. Reyes keeps them busy and switching targets frequently. It doesn’t leave much time for catching up on old missions or old targets. Not that Jesse’s one for looking backwards.

“Reyes will not confirm, but I have heard a rumor that he is gone.” Jesse isn’t imagining the dark edge to Genji’s voice. “The clan has not admitted to this, of course, but no one has seen him for five months. Certainly no one in my intelligence network.” Considering that Genji’s been cut off from everything he used to have, Jesse is mightily intrigued at what this intelligence network looks like. “It does not matter. I will find him, I will find all of them. The order does not matter.”

McCree’s vaguely aware that he’s probably heard Genji string this many words together about his brother sober but once.

_ Might as well take advantage. _

“Would you have done it? If yer places had been switched, I mean. If they had told you to kill him instead?”

There’s a long, tense pause and Jesse fears for a moment he might find his chest the new sheath for the short sword in the cyborg’s hand.

“I would now.” Genji sheathes the blade with finality.

“Heads up, final approach.” Reyes’s voice cuts into their conversation. McCree sits up a bit taller in his seat. Reyes catches his eye across the transport, and he flicks them at Shimada. McCree understands him immediately.

_ Watch him. Make sure he doesn’t go off-script. Keep him in line. Be prepared to shut him down.  _

McCree gives Reyes the barest little nod.

_ You got it, boss. _

**[June 24, 2072]**

The thing about the new Overwatch, McCree had discovered, was that their limited manpower meant threads got dropped as they had to manage each new crises. It wasn’t ideal, but it was familiar, at least. There was something satisfying—comforting, even—in living from emergency to emergency.

With only a dozen active members on the roster, excluding Athena, they had to pick and choose where their efforts were concentrated. And boy howdy had one of the new blood chosen for them. Miss Song made it clear that an attack was due on Busan—well ahead of her governments models—and that they  _ needed _ to go there to prevent the deaths of hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people. Without concrete evidence that Sanjay’s trip to Monaco was anything other than a business trip, they focused their efforts on getting to Busan. Even over Dr. Vaswani’s observations that Korpal’s behavior was irregular. Corporate negligence wasn’t high enough on the list, absent anything overtly sinister, to point their limited resources in that direction. Since the Second Omnic Crisis kicked off in Siberia over a year ago, there were plenty of calls for help that had gone unanswered, but Miss Song made it clear that her continued allegiance with them was hanging in the balance, so off they went, for the better part of a week. It was Mercy, of all people, who had someone in Monaco who could at least attempt to put eyeballs on the situation.

The part of him that had served under Reyes didn’t like it. Not that McCree had personally managed or maintained the intelligence networks, but he’d done his fair share of collection and compilation over the years. He knew the value of follow-up, even if he wasn’t the one doing it. He also didn’t care for working too closely with any government, but Miss Song was shrewder than her years would suggest.

As long as they stayed out of sight of the cameras and let the Meka squad take the limelight, the government wouldn’t complain about the  _ professional assistance _ their sweet poster child brought in. It was a canniness that McCree hadn’t expected, and he tried not to observe her too openly on their flight back to Gibraltar. Anyone could be a good soldier, shoot a gun, and follow orders. McCree was living proof of that, but Hana reminded him a little of Reyes. Maneuvering around the bureaucracy so that they had no choice but to accept his preferred course of action.

He wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with the comparison.

They spilled out of the Orca in various states of sleep or jet lag. They’d gained back several hours on their flight back, and McCree didn’t relish the thought of going to bed at eight or earlier, like an old man. He felt more exhausted than usual. He was no stranger to globe-trotting, but between squeezing in a couple bounty runs with Genji prior to a week in Busan and having phantom limb pain flare ups every day for the past seven days, McCree felt as thin as his oldest serape.

McCree didn’t even make it out of the hangar before he decided he needed a nap. (Winston mercifully decided they should delay their debrief until everyone had a chance to rest and check in with Dr. Ziegler.) He all but collapsed onto a storage crate before making himself as comfortable as he was going to get. He was roused from the brink of sleep a few moments later by a familiar and annoying giggle.

“If you wanted a nap, you should have stayed in the ship! There’s proper seats in there, at least.” McCree lifted one of his lids, and eyed Lena with open venom before closing it with a sigh.

“Too late. Made my decision, gotta live with it now.” McCree crossed his arms and shifted against the wall again.

“I could try carrying you to your room if you like, Jess.”

McCree snorted, in part at the nickname and in part because Lena was maybe half his weight sopping wet. Well, in the old days that would have been true. He was still a little lean right now.

“You’d have to dump me outside my door anyway,” McCree tipped his hat down to cover his eyes. Only part theatrics. “Ain’t giving out my room code an’ I’ll be passed out by the time you lug me there.”

Lena reached down and he felt felt a rush of air over his scalp as she stole his hat, righting it on her head. A surge of anger flared through him, and if he wasn't exhausted he would have jumped to his feet to snatch it off her head. A moment later the anger bled away, and he leaned back, head resting against the wall. "I see how it is, you don't trust me then? After all this time? That’s really hurtful, Jess."

_ I don't. _ McCree studied Lena. "All this time?"

Miss Oxton shrugged, as if it were obvious. Like they were the oldest and best of friends. "Yeah, like, we've known each other um… five years? At least?"  _ Have we? News to me. _ McCree scoffed lightly.

“How long were you in Overwatch for Lena? Your training accident, the Uprising in King’s Row? Barely got your feet wet before they pulled the rug out from under ya.” It irritated McCree, that she would pretend to like him this much. That she would have so much loyalty to an institution she was barely a part of. Just like Pharah, Lena could have any career she wanted. World famous pilot? She didn’t need to be slumming it here with the likes of them. He was frankly surprised that the British government hadn’t snapped her up.

“Overwatch is the reason I’m alive,” she responded tartly. “In case you’ve forgotten the consequences of my little  _ training accident. _ Winston’s the reason I was able to get back after…” Lena’s eyes went distant, and McCree felt a prick of guilt in his shriveled, cynical heart. He let his eyes drift down to the glowing blue accelerator on her chest. He hadn't exactly  _ forgotten, _ but… _ Yeah. Okay. That one's on me. I'm the dick. _ “I owe him big,” she mumbled quietly, coming out of her stupor.

Lena shrugged, "Anyway, even if you didn't miss me, I missed you, Jess!"

McCree blinked. "I didn't say—you... you missed me?" It was hard for him to wrap his head around. Had he really made that big an impression?

"Yeah. I missed everybody from the old days."

"You and I barely knew each other in the old days, darlin'," McCree wasn't sure why he needed to point this out to Tracer. It wasn’t exactly helping in the  _ don’t-make-a-dick-move-department. _

Tracer threw up her hands. "Fine! maybe we weren't that close, but we spent some good times together in London. And we're both here now! Lost time, and all that." Tracer ducked her head a bit and removed his hat, offering it to McCree almost sheepishly. "I know a thing or two about lost time. So don't be so fussy! Now, fess up! Did you miss me or not?"

Jesse opened his mouth, but closed it again. He took in Agent Oxton. He remembered an eager, dewy-eyed cadet, with an overwhelming, unbridled passion for goodness and action. So much so, that she tipped the scales between some unspoken argument between Morrison, Reyes, politics, and policy—something he'd never accomplished, despite his closeness with Reyes. Someone who wasn't afraid to help McCree organize a kegstand contest in an Irish pub overrun by agents who weren't supposed to be there.

Someone who wasn't afraid to tell grizzled old men when they had their heads up their asses.

McCree chuckled softly and set his had on his head, "Yeah, I guess I did. Just forgot it, until now."

Lena's smile touched something in his chest. Gave him a good sort of ache, like he was stretching an unused muscle. He'd forgotten that how difficult it was for a person to stay dour and sulky when Lena Oxton turned on her megawatt smile because of something he'd done. "See! Just like I told you, Jess." She reached down, and McCree let her haul him to his feet.

\----

McCree only made it as far as the rec room before he tossed himself into a plaid, barely-functional chair and passed out for about thirty or forty minutes. When he groggily came to he stumbled outdoors, until he found the most isolated stretch of cliff underneath one of the many watchtowers. Athena claimed she couldn't read his biometrics very well here, and that she would not be able to confirm his activities in regards to recreational tobacco use. McCree hadn't dignified that with a response. If they wanted to shunt him to a specific spot on base to smoke, then fine. That's what he'd do. He looked down at his metal hand and flexed it, cigarillo in the other. He flipped on his comm, still on from the mission.

"Hey 'Thena, patch me through to the doc?"

_ <One moment.> _

"Hey Angie?"

_ "Yes, Agent McCree?" _ Angela's clipped voice filled his ear.

"Need to talk to you, if that's alright. You got a minute?"

_ "Certainly. What's the matter? Did you receive an injury in Busan without telling me? I asked for an injury report before we left." _ Her tone turned cold and harsh. McCree couldn't hold back a sigh.

"No. I mean, kind of, but no. It's just, my arm's been kinda buggin' me." 

_ "Jesse McCree. Did this happen while we were in Korea?" _

"Look, can we skip the scolding? Or at least wait until I'm in your office?" He couldn't help but laugh at the aggravated sigh in his ear. He dropped his smile a moment later. "For real though, it's been—"

_ "Just come into my office for a real exam, and we'll finish up there. I'll make sure it's just you." _

"Appreciate it," McCree said mildly into the comm. He looked down at his smoke, and sighed. Dr. Ziegler probably had about seventeen lectures for him, and the one he wanted to hear the least would probably be out of her mouth as soon as she smelled the fresh smoke on him.

Despite his prediction, Angela simply told him to sit on the examination table as soon as he walked into her lab. He waited while she washed her hands, holding tense for a lecture that still hadn't been issued. He let her do her usual doctor thing and take his vitals, but it was mostly a formality. In McCree's mind anyway. She already knew his complaint. He only half-paid attention to her more routine questions before he finally checked back into the conversation.

“How are the painkillers working?”

“They’re holdin’ up I guess but man, these attacks seem to be gettin’ worse, almost. Not better. Had one or more a day bout a week straight now.” He’d been lucky it hadn’t interfered with the mission. The last thing McCree wanted to be was a liability.

“Have you had another attack today?” Dr. Ziegler sketched her notes rapid fire into her screen-reader.

“Not yet. Imagine it’ll happen whether I want it to or not. Not like I get a warning.”

“How much have you been smoking?”

McCree narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I will remind you again, McCree, that smoking increases the risk of such an attack. You may wish to cut back, and I am always ready to assist you in quitting altogether. It is also possible that a change in air pressure may trigger a flare up. There was that storm front passing through on our mission, yes?” McCree sighed and glanced over at one of the screens hovering in place. He’d half-tuned Mercy out as soon as she started in on the smoking. As always Dr. Ziegler had the same illustration pulled up, just in case he’d forgotten their first conversation on his arrival. The screen showed a bisected human brain and the human body spooled out like a strange deflated balloon over the folds and creases of the cortex. Thing fuckin’ creeped him out every time he looked at it.

Still, it helped him understand what was happening to him, and he appreciated the fact that Mercy had explained it to him more than once so that it stuck in his head. He’d worked with plenty of people with missing limbs besides Genji, but he’d never really absorbed anything on why phantom limb pain happened, he just knew it did sometimes.

Dr. Ziegler’s explanation had been fairly slick, once distilled down to the basics. His brain still figured he had all his limbs, and anytime it sent out feelers to his left hand and came up short, it’d start to holler at him with pain and other shit to let him know something was wrong. As if he didn’t know by now.

“Sorta hoped my brain would get the picture by now and cut this shit out.” Or get a new picture, maybe.

“I keep telling you to be patient. Your cortex has had the same map your whole life. Your brain is still operating on the assumption your hand is there. It is just fulfilling a function and trying to let you know something is not right.”

“How considerate.”

“We just need to work more on retraining your brain, then, it seems.”

“Y’mean trick it so that it stops yelling at me.”

Mercy smiled softly. “Quite. Our brains are stupid, Jesse. They are so complex, so wonderful, and so mysterious; yet there is so much they cannot cope with. And they can be tricked so easily. It is truly remarkable. I know you were having difficulty with the mirror therapy… do you want to  _ try _ the VR again?”

McCree felt his stomach clench, “Not really. Unless you feel like cleaning up my vomit.”

Mercy sighed, “Well, then I would persist with the mirror therapy, as best you can. Maybe try out different lighting options? I realize it is primitive, but I promise you it is effective if you can get it to work.” Mercy chewed the corner of her lower lip thoughtfully. “Another option would be acupuncture. You could also try a TENS device on your stump, that might interrupt the signals between your arm and brain. We could also install implants along your spine. This would administer minute electrical pulses to your spinal cord as necessary to relieve pain. We could also map your brain and put electrodes directly on the sources causing your issues, but I’d rather see if it subsides on its own first. It could take up to a year, Jesse, before these attacks start to decline in earnest.”

“Yeah, avoiding implants would be great,” McCree didn’t want to admit to Dr. Ziegler how much her talk of sending electrical currents into his spinal cord made him want to run from the room in terror. The skin along his spine felt like it was crawling with spiders.

“I also want to discuss that prosthetic. Have you taken it to Torbjörn to have it adjusted? Now that your swelling is less variable?”

“Yeah… got me a nice silicone band to line it too. Helps keep it on right.”

“I worry about the weight. It’s so heavy. That is fine for combat, but I worry about the strain it puts on the remaining parts of your limb and the rest of your body. You should consider investing in something lighter for around the base. Or even something made of carbon fiber, like Genji.”

“I’ll think about it,” McCree didn’t really want to go through the process of fitting and measuring out shit for a new arm. Didn’t feel like that was time or energy well spent when he had something functional already. He could feel a terrible itching sensation right under the skull on his arm, and Jesse bit the inside of his lip to ignore it.

“Your physical condition seems fine otherwise. Your last screen for protozoa came up clean, by the way. So it seems you didn’t bring back anything nasty after your little plunge into the river. I also have to admit, reluctantly, that your lungs and liver are both functioning far better than I expected, given how you treat them. There’s barely any sign of damage.”

“Oh, so I’m good to keep on with the smokin’ and the drinking?”

Dr. Ziegler’s sigh verged on a growl, “Why is it whenever I tell my patients their organs are doing  _ ‘better than expected’  _ they hear  _ ‘I have free license to abuse my body as I please with no consequences?’  _ There _ is _ damage. Just not what I would expect.” Jesse wondered how many patients besides himself and Genji she was talking about. He didn’t like the pause there, however, nor the pensive look on her face.

“Something the matter doc?”

“Jesse… the Blackwatch records I have are not complete. Some of the data seems to be missing in the transfer to Athena’s databases. Is there anything important I need to know about Deadeye that wasn’t available through official Overwatch channels? I don’t have access to any of your medical information that was held with Blackwatch.”

“Should have everything you need far as I know. My medical files really that messed up?”

Dr. Ziegler nodded slowly, and smoothed her short nail across her lip. Perfectly clipped, fastidiously clean. Short to keep the possible contamination vector as low as possible. A true surgeon. ”Do you think it’s possible that Moira… experimented on you without your knowledge?” McCree’s heart lurched uncomfortably in his chest.

“No, but thanks for raising the terrifying specter of  _ that  _ possibility!”

Angela sighed, “I was waiting until you were further along in your recovery before discussing it.”

"Look, doc, I appreciate the thought, but I think I'm fine. Why'd you ask though?"

Ziegler shrugged, "It just seemed… again, you are doing… surprisingly well for someone with personal habits and vices such as yours. I had wondered if perhaps…"

"Never cared for 'if' or 'perhaps' there, doc."

Angela shrugged, "I have known that Moira… I knew that Dr. O'Deorain was never truly gone. Not really. I saw… modifications to Genji that were not my own. It was easy enough to guess what had happened." She pressed her lips together tightly.

"You  _ knew? _ Back in the day?" McCree gawked at her.

"Of course I knew. Genji was my-” Angela’s hesitation was like an entire novel on what Genji was. “-My patient." She chewed her lip, "I could say nothing. Genji would never give her up, and I’m sure he would have said any unauthorized modifications were his. Even if I did, I would have revealed Blackwatch's existence. Of course that was no longer an issue after Venice, but still… There were problems enough to go around after that. I'm not sure if it mattered, in the end. Maybe I should have said something. It is easy to say ‘maybe’ about such things over half a decade later. Maybe it would have merely driven her to Talon sooner. I don’t really know when she formed her connection to them. I wish I knew what the solution was in handling Dr. O'Deorain, McCree, but I don't think we found it. I certainly didn’t find it."

_ Bullet to the head would work, probably. If she doesn't already have a way to regrow brain tissue. _ "Hey, speaking of connections, you reached out to your contact in Monaco yet?"

“No,” Mercy shook her head. “I honestly forgot. Let me call him now.”

“All right if I listen in?”

Angela shrugged as she summoned up a holoscreen, “You’d need to hear my findings anyway. Just remember, I’m not  _ here. _ I’m still in Switzerland. In my office. By myself.”

“Yeah yeah,” Jesse waved his metal hand lazily. “I can keep my trap shut.” Dr. Ziegler nodded and flicked up on the screen and summoned a contact list. It flew by too fast for McCree to decipher backwards and ghosted-over from viewing the screen from the wrong side. She tapped one of the thumbnails that flew by and a video call opened up.

McCree could just make out the figure of the person on the other side. McCree couldn’t make out the features clearly, other than the fact that the other party was dark skinned and that he had a shock of bright hair slicked back into a tight ponytail.

“Angela?” The man had a South African accent, deep and pleasant to listen to, despite the distortion from the convoluted connection routed through several countries and anonymous servers.

“Good evening Dr. Nkosi. How is your practice going?” Angela flashed her contact a charming smile.

“Angela! I thought you were my four o’clock call from the International Institute for Nanite Studies! I suppose you’re just as good, eh?”

Angela chuckled, clearly flattered. “I do apologize if I’m intruding. Should I call back? I don’t want to keep you if you already have an appointment…”

The silhouette waved a hand carelessly, “No worries, no worries. That secretary of theirs is always running late. We probably have a good twenty minutes before my other call will come in. How was your day?”

McCree crossed his arms, and settled a bit more comfortably on the examination table, and let Angela catch up with her colleague. From what he could tell, Dr. Nkosi seemed to be a jovial sort of man who took very few subjects outside his craft seriously. McCree sat through a truly painful amount of small talk before Mercy finally broached the subject at hand.

“-Speaking of your wife, how was Monaco? Did you two enjoy yourselves?”

“She's not going to be happy with you. I won and lost a small fortune in the space of an evening.” Dr. Nkosi sucked on his teeth, as if still anticipating the storm.

“I only told you that you needed to be there. I take no responsibility for your gambling habits or missteps.”

“You really have no idea how expensive the buy-ins up the VIP tables are, do you?”

“I make it my business to avoid houses of chance,” Angela shrugged, unsympathetic to her colleague’s plight.

“Look Dr. Ziegler, I may have never walked in your world before, but I know enough to know that this man you were interested in wouldn't be at the tables downstairs with the tourists. Give me a little credit.”

Angela pinched her brow and sighed, “Please tell me you didn't speak with him.”

Dr. Nkosi chuckled warmly. “I know how to follow directions, doctor. I barely got to look at him actually. Seems he was destined to a private room anyway, but he was there.”

“Well, I appreciate the sacrifice you made in breaking even, I suppose.” Dr. Ziegler stretched her hand flat against her desk, as though bracing herself.

“Angela,” Dr. Nkosi’s voice took on a serious tone and, for the first time, McCree could picture the man giving someone a terrible diagnosis. “Who  _ was _ that man? Are you in trouble?”

“You are asking a great many questions for someone who agreed to do me a favor no questions asked.”

“I’m just concerned, Angela. Overwatch may be gone, but its enemies are not. I’m not naive. I know Overwatch’s troubles didn’t disappear with the Petras Act. I’m just lucky I was a mere consultant, a third party. I escaped so much turmoil.”

Angela chewed the inside of her lip and met Jesse’s eyes above the translucent holoscreen. “It may be nothing. I just have… concerns. Did you hear  _ anything _ of interest? Or did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

There was a staticy blast of a sigh, “No, no… wait… there was something. There was an omnic, it went to the same private room as your mark.” McCree sat a little taller, staring intently at Angela’s holoscreen.

“Is that so unusual?” Mercy tipped her head. “There are plenty of omnic staff members everywhere.”

“That’s what struck me,” Jesse could just make out Dr. Nkosi rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It.. He? Was very well dressed. Unusual model. Darker plating, quite a few matte black accents, a top piece that almost looked like hair. Not one of the staff, and they aren’t allowed to play… for obvious reasons.” Jesse felt the bottom of his stomach drop out from under him like a trap door. He summoned up a holoscreen of his own and bored his eyes into Angela’s. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the data across the room to Dr. Ziegler’s reader.

Angela looked down for a moment before meeting Dr. Nkosi’s eyes. With a flick of her fingers, a new holoscreen hovered before her, bringing up the image McCree just sent her. “Was it this omnic?” Jesse had to give her credit. She sounded nothing but casual and curious as she held up the picture of Maximilien. He was rather striking, as far as omnics went. Seven red sensors arranged along his dome, downturned red eyes, and a pointed chin that was only a little less sharp than his suit.

“Why… yes! How did you—Angela who  _ is _ that omnic?”

“No. Questions. Andile. Especially if you didn’t overhear anything. Just forget I ever asked you this. Remember that  _ and _ remember who recommended your study to the International Institute for Nanite Studies in the first place.”

“Angela, you know I’m just worried. Do you have someone watching out for you? Interpol, anybody?” McCree was thankful he wasn’t hooked up to an EKG or heart rate monitor. The spike in his heart rate probably would have given his presence away.

“Andile.” Dr. Ziegler’s voice went dangerously soft. “I said no questions asked. I appreciate the concern, and I remind you of the _ other favors _ you owe me to keep this concern between us. Do not make me regret giving you access to Odin’s maiden. Or the pass I gave you.”

There was another long sigh from the other end of the call. “Understood. Ah, there’s my call. It was good to speak with you again Dr. Ziegler. Call me again soon, and let me know when I can stop ‘privately’ worrying about you.”

The holoscreen holding the call winked out of existence.

“You think he’s as good as his word? Don’t much like the sound of him wanting to get law enforcement involved.”

“I wouldn’t have asked him if I didn’t think he would. Besides. I have leverage enough.”

McCree lifted his brows. “You?”

Angela tipped her head back, stopping just shy of staring down her nose at him. “Favors go both ways, McCree. Not all of them have equal weight.”

“Don’t remember him from the old days. ‘Third party’?” McCree got off the examination table and shuffled over to Angela’s desk.

“Yes, part of a team from Oasis. A partnership project.” Angela looked off into the distance thoughtfully, and McCree could almost see the incomprehensible project files in her head. “He was the one who helped tip me off about Moira—when she was still part of Overwatch. Before Reyes scooped her up.”

McCree’s blood went cold. His stomach locked up tighter than Jack’s collection of 40-year-old scotch. He tried not to think about the last time he saw Reyes’s face.

Jesse swallowed thickly, clenching his one and only sweaty palm. “That so?” He just managed to keep his voice from breaking. Angela didn’t seem to notice, still absorbed in her thoughts.

“I reported Moira, but I made sure Dr. Nkosi wasn’t caught in any crossfire. He was partnering in a project with her at the time.” Angela pushed her bangs to one side. “He didn’t stick around long, but I think he was looking to rid Oasis of an embarrassment and a liability. She was still part of their initiative at the time, in addition to being one of ours.”

Moira was a familiar and detestable enough topic to pull McCree back from miles away. “I suppose it don’t hurt that getting O’Deorain out of the way probably helped him out too.”

Angela shrugged, “I suppose it did not. Andile never worried me like Moira, and he showed genuine concern for her methodology. It still would have been easy for the ethics committee to come down on both of them.” Dr. Ziegler laced her fingers together. “I made sure that did not happen.”

“Jesus, Angie, remind me to stay on your good side.” Not that McCree had done a stellar job with that, over the years.

She laughed quietly, “Anyway, I only told this story to satisfy your concerns whether I can trust Andile or not. I do. Implicitly. He did the right thing, even if he may or may not have had ulterior motives for doing so.” Angela frowned. “I wonder if I did end up doing the right thing… If she had not been shunted off to Blackwatch…” The doctor sighed again, and McCree let himself be seduced into imagining all sorts of pasts where Moira was just a passing blip on the radar, never to be heard from again and Oslo, Venice, and Geneva had never happened.  _ Fat chance. Probably would have had her own country run by her own personal army of rats and rabbits by now, I bet. _

“Think you said it best, doc. Dunno if there was an optimal solution to deal with O’Deorain. Well, I might have an idea or two, but I doubt you’d approve of ‘em.”

Mercy shook her head and tucked her bangs behind one ear, “No, I very much doubt that.” She didn’t sound amused this time, only tired. “So, you think Sanjay met with Max? That he is involved with Talon?”

“More than that, I’d be willing to bet on it.” McCree sighed, irritated. “Wish we’d had enough resources to send someone to keep an eye on him.”

“Busan was more pressing,” Mercy reminded him. “I will forward this to Winston. I’m glad Andile was able to confirm this much. I’m honestly surprised we got something useful out of it, considering the circumstances.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should recruit Dr. Nkosi. Ranks are little thin right now. Maybe you should have applied your favors in that direction,” McCree chuckled.

Angela rolled her eyes, “Was there anything else troubling you, McCree?”

Jesse hesitated, weight already on the ball of one foot. He thought of the nightmares and the flashbacks. He thought of the cold sweats, the itching, the fear that froze his lungs, and his racing heart.

McCree swallowed it all down.

“Nope.”

He left Dr. Ziegler’s office before she could see through his lie.

\----

Given that they’d just come back from a mission, McCree was surprised to see Brigitte lurking outside one of two functional practice ranges. He was even more surprised to see the caution light over the door that indicated it was in use.

He tipped his hat at the young Miss Lindholm. “Afternoon. Surprised to see you here.”

Brigitte nearly jumped out of her skin, “Oh! M-McCree. Hi! Uh I wasn’t uh… I was just uh… just passing through the hallway here.”

He lifted a brow, scanning up and down the empty corridor. There wasn’t much else here besides the practice range, and it was well out of its way from the other functioning parts of the base. “Right.”

“Um, so I guess we’ll… I’ll go my own way, um… if you see Hana in there could you… uh actually, just… nevermind. I’ll ask later. Bye!”

He almost asked her how she knew it was Hana in there, but then McCree remembered he had definitely seen an autographed poster of D.Va tucked away in Brigitte’s locker. He shook his head softly.  _ Kids. _

McCree punched in his randomly-issued security code and entered the practice range. He grabbed a pair of silicone earplugs from the rack in the entryway. He glanced down the two corridors on either side of the space that lead to the armory and maintenance rooms and confirmed his suspicions. No one else was here. In front of him, separated by thick, bullet-resistant glass was the actual shooting range, which currently held one occupant standing at the end of a firing lane.

He stood back for a moment to watch Miss Song, though he’d had a bit of a chance to observe her form in Busan. Between the glass and the earplugs, he barely heard her gun at all. Plasma shots weren’t as loud or explosive as traditional guns like his.

He waited until her clip was about to empty before he opened the doors to the firing range. Miss Song didn’t even spare him a glance as he stepped into the empty lane beside her.

“Evening.” For a moment, he wondered if she’d even heard him.

“Evening, cowboy.” McCree took a good look at Hana from the corner of his vision. The circles under her eyes were so dark, he wondered if she’d even had so much as a catnap since their landing. McCree glanced over at one of the displays on the wall, showing a newsfeed from Korea. He did a double take as he saw D.Va on the screen, blowing kisses and making heart shapes with her hands as she mugged at the camera.

“What the fuck is  _ that? _ You stop to talk to the media while we were in your neck of the woods?”

“No. It’s a live feed,” Hana reloaded her gun, barely paying any attention to the newscast. “She’s my body double. Min-Jun. They trot her out when I need to be seen and not heard. “She’s been seeing a lot more of the limelight lately.”

Hana went through another clip in her gun, cursing as her last few shots went wide of their mark.

McCree took the hint and changed the subject. “Pretty fine shooting there, all  told,” he set a box of ammunition down on the shelf beside him.

“Thanks,” was she blinking enough? It seemed like she wasn’t blinking enough. McCree rolled his neck, before giving a casual observation.

“You got a good eye. Pretty decent grouping too, for a plasma-based handgun, but you gotta work on your breathing. You lock up when you do that. Hold yer breath like that. It throws off your aim when you pull the trigger.” He flicked open Peacekeeper’s chamber and loaded it with bullets. One by one.

Hana glared at him, and McCree wondered if she was about to break every rule of gun range etiquette and safety.

“I don’t  _ need _ help from you. I’ve had military training.”

“Sure, sure. Don’t mind me. I can see you know your way around a gun.” McCree lazily lined up his shot and emptied the barrel of Peacekeeper into the farthest target available.

_ <Agent McCree takes the lead for today with two hundred points. Monthly total updated.> _ The readout on the wall for the daily and monthly top scores updated and McCree’s name appeared at the top of the daily leaderboard. Demoting D.va to second place. His name remained at the top of the monthly column, but his score went up by two hundred points.

Miss Song’s nostrils flared and she looked  _ livid. _

McCree tipped his hat as he emptied the shell casings from the chamber and slotted in six more bullets with his quick-loader. “Ain’t the same as a hit-scan in a video game either, huh? But I’m sure you figured that one out quick.”

“You saying video games are bad for my aim now or something?”  _ Jesus, did I really used to sound like that all the time? All riled up over nothing? _

McCree shrugged, “Always harder to master something when you gotta unlearn shit. I wouldn’t know much about that myself. Don’t got much in the way of education.” McCree lifted his revolver again, lining up his next shot—not that it was a challenge with them being at a total standstill.

“Athena. Reset target field. Run program: Hard Mode,” Miss Song lifted her chin as the ceasefire alarms went off. He lowered his gun and grinned. Robotic arms and servos whirred as they reset the range, like a fancy bowling alley. The wall that held the bullet trap slid backwards several yards. Metal target plates started traveling back and forth on rails, and a few training bots weaved erratically along the floor. At least four of the target bots and plates were white.

“Missed shots set you back ten points. Hitting a No-Shoot target sets you back ten points. Think you can keep up with me?” D.va reloaded her handgun. Even though it was a light weapon, he knew that the plasma shots held more kickback than a traditional 9mm with a less accurate and wider spread. The rounds were also more devastating than a 9mm, designed to carve through omnic plating.

“I think I can manage the trick.” Maybe it was a dick move, but Jesse McCree wasn’t about to hold back on the shooting range. Even if he already had a built-in advantage when it came to equipment.

And maybe if Miss Song wasn’t number one all the time, she might get out of whatever weird headspace it was that had her chasing death on the battlefield.

They were damn lucky they’d walked away from Busan with no casualties. McCree frowned a bit as he stepped up to the line.

“Count us down, Athena.”

_ <Five… Four…> _

Hana was still too tense.

_ <Three… Two…> _

McCree exhaled.

_ <One.> _

He tuned out Athena’s melodic voice dispassionately tallying up the score. McCree aimed practically on instinct, a smooth mechanical action that was as easy as breathing.

Within seconds only the No-Shoot targets were left.

_ <Winner: Agent McCree.> _

“No way,” Hana’s words were soft, full of disbelief. It wasn’t poor sportsmanship, Jesse could see that much. She just couldn’t accept that she’d lost. Again.

“Sorry,” McCree shrugged, not really feeling sorry for beating Miss Song as much as he was for however she was feeling. “Got a touch more experience under my belt. Reckon that it helps.”

Miss Song clenched her free hand into a fist, and Jesse tensed, expecting a blow. It didn’t come. Instead Miss Song prodded him in the chest. “I’m going to beat you. This was a  _ fluke. _ I’ll put in the hours, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m  _ always _ number one!”

“Whatever you say, Miss Song. If it makes you happy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, ” _ Happy _ isn’t what’s important.” Her cheeks were red beneath her pink whiskers.

McCree tilted his head curiously, “Mind telling me what is important?”

Miss Song glared at him, “Something you wouldn’t understand.”  _ Christ. Why do I suddenly feel like I owe Morrison an apology? _ Disgusting. The thought of giving that man an apology for  _ anything _ made Jesse feel the urge to take a shower.

McCree let the corner of his mouth lift in the barest of smiles, “Try me.”

Miss Song shifted her jaw from side to side, teeth before gritting out a single word. “Survival.”

McCree snorted out a laugh. “Ah, ‘fraid that ain’t so, dar—Miss Song.” Hana slammed her gun to the shelf with far too much force for McCree’s liking. They were damn lucky the weapon had just been spent, and that there wasn’t a malfunction or misfire waiting to be set off.

“No. You don’t,” Hana swiped her thumb across her eyes. She seemed so  _ tired, _ but the muscles in her neck and back were tense. “You don’t know a damn thing about being responsible for anyone but yourself. You aren’t the face of a whole nation’s survival while their leaders—” Hana sucked in a breath through her nose. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll wipe you out of the number one spot by the end of the month.”

McCree inclined his head towards her. “Lookin’ forward to it.” Hana started stomping her way towards the door, abandoning her gun entirely. “By the by, you wanna talk about what’s eating at you… well, reckon plenty of folk around here will listen to ya.”

Miss Song paused with her hand over the keypad by the door. “Not you though?”

McCree chuckled, “Probably better qualified people around these parts. Angela. Lúcio. Brigitte. Hell, even Soldier, but yeah, sure. I could be persuaded to listen to you sometime.”

There was the barest shift in posture that McCree wasn’t sure how to read, a straightening of the spine before Hana stormed out of the practice range altogether.

“Well, that probably could have gone better,” McCree announced to no one in particular, rubbing the back of his neck.

_ <Your offer to help your teammate was admirable, Agent McCree.> _

Jesse nearly had a heart attack. “Fucking Christ! I was not speaking at you!”

_ <My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.> _

McCree grunted, “Apology accepted.” He settled in for some practice to calm his racing heart. The missing weight on his left thigh felt more prominent than ever as he put Peacekeeper through her paces. He’d abandoned his other holster as soon as he’d affixed the prosthetic to his stump. In Busan, bounty hunting, and on the hypertrain he’d been too busy fighting to notice it, but during practice? It was just another reminder of another thing he’d lost with his arm. He banished the memory, pulling back Peacekeeper’s hammer and squeezing the trigger in one smooth motion.

Jesse made it through five rounds before he felt a terrible itching along his left forearm. The one he didn’t have.

He tried to put it out of his mind, but it only got stronger, and his shots started going wide of their marks. Before he knew it, his whole arm was on fire, shooting up and through his shoulder. McCree put Peacekeeper down on the shelf beside the ammunition. “Aw  _ hell.” _ His prosthetic wasn’t fully responding. Something must have shifted or a connection got knocked out of place, because only two of his fingers were heeding his command. It felt heavier than usual.  _ Something musta got damaged in Busan that finally gave. _ Or maybe before Busan, even. “Well… that’s the price for getting it second hand I guess, ha—fuck!” He’d have to look at it… or have Torb look at it, one or the other. Or Brigitte. Somebody. McCree grabbed his elbow and staggered over to the wall, breathing deep. He knew he had painkillers in his room, but that seemed awfully far away right now.

_ <Did you need assistance, Agent McCree?> _

Jesse shook his head, even as his eyes rolled upwards without his permission. “N-No, I’m all good.” His breath came heavy through his mouth, good hand sweaty and pressed against the wall. He didn’t register Athena’s response to him, nor the sound of the door to the training range opening.

“Agent McCree?”

“Oh, h-hey Vaswani,” McCree tried to play it off cool, but he wasn’t sure how successful that was considering he was sweating something fierce.

“Something is wrong?” It was half a question, half an observation.

“Just… Not feeling so great right now. It’ll pass.” He tried to regulate his breathing, leaning casually against the wall to apply pressure to his shoulder. As if that could somehow help his brain remember that he already knew there was a problem with his arm, thanks, the pain wasn’t necessary.

Dr. Vaswani was silent for several moments. “Your arm?”

“Yeah,” McCree was a little surprised. Dr. Vaswani hadn’t really shown herself to be… good at reading people.

“Remove your ridiculous prosthetic, and come here.” She gestured impatiently. McCree did as he was told, setting his arm on the surface of the shooting range. Probably not a great place for it, but they were the only two in here.

Dr. Vaswani removed one of those bracelet-like discs, and McCree felt a bit of tension grip his gut, remembering her little setup in Rio. In a moment, however, Dr. Vaswani had adjusted the disc into a thin band, and affixed it to the end of his stump. There was a flash of blue, and a slim, ghostly arm made out of hard-light appeared beneath Dr. Vaswani’s fingers. McCree jumped a bit, and the hand flexed back.

“Holy shit!”

“Hold still, we need to adjust this. Let me know when it looks right. It is modeled after my own arm, at present.” They spent a few moments, and McCree watched in fascination as Satya readjusted the dimensions of the arm on the fly, into something that matched his proportions a little better. Less like a noodle attached to his arm.

“Holy shit,” he said again. “Hat’s off to you doc, that’s something else.”

“What does your hat have to do with anything?” Satya frowned, and McCree chuckled.

“Just an expression, sorry. Thank you.” McCree experimented a little. The hand responded fairly well to his commands. It was a little less responsive than the prosthetic, the motions were simpler, but the scale and proportions were closer to the hand he’d lost. He could make a fist, extend his fingers together or independently, turn his hand over—it was impressive. “You made this?”

“Yes,” Satya shrugged. “I had similar issues when I lost my arm, but the virtual reality programs for visualization therapy made me… ill.”

McCree chuckled at her expression, “I’m in the same boat. The other good doctor here tried to get me to try one and… Let’s just say it did not go well.” He wondered if Deadeye had something to do with the reason he didn’t take to the VR headset. Or maybe he’d just always been one of  _ those people _ and never known it.

“Mirror therapy was… difficult. The illusion is easy to break. I devised this as a solution,” Satya shrugged. As if her solution to program  _ this _ in the wake of losing a limb were unremarkable. McCree thought he was hot shit for prepping breakfast and getting dressed on his own. He couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of smarts and coordination required to do all this.

“Amazing,” he said the word softly and he meant it. He gave Satya a sly sort of grin, ”But does it come in any other color?”

“Of course, what do you prefer?” McCree blinked. He’d been joking, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Satya’s hands were already hovering over his ghostly arm again.

“Uh.. Red?”

Satya sighed, “Red is… unfortunately one of the more difficult colors. It tends to appear pink due to the nature of the medium.”

It didn’t bother McCree, but he could tell that there was a perfectionist in Satya. “Uh, orange then?” Satya pinched her fingers together, and rotated them together, like spinning an invisible disk. McCree’s arm abruptly shifted into something comfortably in the middle of the orange color spectrum.

“I take it blue is one of your favorite colors then?”

Satya considered the question seriously, resting her chin on the knuckles made of flesh. “It is… easier for me to process. Other colors can be too harsh to work with. The shade of blue I use is easier to work with. Especially over long periods of time.”

“So… practicality wins again.” McCree turned his orange hand over again, marveling at how much the pain had already decreased.

“Practicality is not a dirty word, Agent McCree.”

McCree chuckled, “I suppose it ain’t. Big fan of it myself.”

“You may keep the band, if you like. I can make one for myself again, if needed.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” Satya shrugged. “I scarcely need it anymore anyway. The problem was much more acute when I first lost my arm.”

McCree ran his fingers through his beard, “Hey, uh, not to pry or anything, but you were like, a scientist-programmer type, right? Hardly seems like the line of work where you risk well… life and limb on a regular basis.”

Satya smiled without humor, her eyes cold, “Working with sheer planes of light always carries a risk, Agent McCree. My arm was the price I paid for a miscalculation.”

Her choice of words touched at the most black and perverse sense of humor at his heart, and McCree couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out from his gut. Poor Satya looked… well… torn between incensed and confused.

“Why is that funny?”

McCree managed to reign in his laughter, just a bit, resting his orange fingers on the bridge of his nose, “Ah, sorry doc. Just… wishin’ I could say the same, that’s all.” Saving his arm had never been part of the calculation.

The anger in Satya’s face abated as she realized that McCree was not laughing at her, but the confusion remained. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s a’right. You kinda had to be there,” McCree let out another dark chuckle, even as he tried to push a tangle of painful memories out of his mind. His head was full of dust, blood, and gunfire, buried under an avalanche of pain.

“You are,” Satya let out a short breath through her nose “very peculiar.”

“It’s all part of my charm,” McCree shrugged, and flashed the good doctor a smile. She didn’t appear to be impressed. “So, how do you like it here?”

“I don’t,” Dr. Vaswani said the words with the same matter-of-fact of inflection as admitting she had adapted and programmed her own therapeutic hard-light arm.

“Wow. To the point. I like it,” McCree rotated his arm slowly, watching it in fascination.

“You asked a question. It is not my fault if you do not like the answer.”

“Hey now, I didn’t say that. Anyways it ain’t so bad,” even McCree had to admit that. Though he didn’t fault her for not being thrilled. It’s not like he came back out of nostalgia and craving for the good old days.

“‘Aint so bad?’” Satya sounded rather incredulous, meeting his gaze.

“Yeah. We got electricity and running water here. Step above some of the places I’ve been. I had to rough it quite a bit the last 5 or so years myself. So, I dunno about you, Doctor Not-A-Penthouse-But-Close-Enough. I find this quite agreeable. Got a roof over my head. Decent company. Apart from a few ghosts here and there.”

“When you say ghosts do you mean a supernatural phenomenon, or are you being figurative?”

McCree blinked. “Uh, figurative.”

“I see.” Satya’s eyes dropped to his shoulder.

McCree tilted his head, another figurative ghost tickling his brain. He hadn’t thought about Bradley in years, but he’d been a good guy. Just different. Like Satya. McCree felt like a lot of pieces were settling into place. Why his initial read of Satya had been so off. Now that he adjusted that picture it was easier to understand where she was really coming from.

“So, Dr. Vaswani, I was thinking about making a late lunch. You want in? Nothing crazy spicy, I promise. I can even show you how to fix some of your own grub, if you like.”

Satya considered the matter with such seriousness Jesse had to tamp down on the urge to laugh again. “Perhaps in a little while. I came here to test something, the mission in Busan was very intellectually stimulating. I just finished some calculations and schematics, but… I will join you in twenty minutes.” McCree smiled, and he felt a little warmth in his chest.

“Sounds great.”

\----

_ <Agent McCree, Agent Shimada is on his way to see you.> _

Jesse looked up at the ceiling, even though he knew that wasn’t where Athena was housed. Just a stupid reflex. “Y’don’t say? Here I thought I was imagining those carbon fiber footprints down the hallway.” 

_ <Safety protocols require me to announce when another individual is approaching someone in the process of cleaning or maintaining firearms. No matter where said maintenance is taking place on base. There is no need to get snippy.> _

McCree chuckled. Genji could sneak up on him about eight times out of ten, if he wanted. Genji had a healthy respect for the activity at hand, though, and knew better than to sneak up on someone doing firearms maintenance. Granted, Peacekeeper was laid out in all of her pieces on the cloth in front of him, but he could just as easily have been clearing up a malfunction. Despite her promises, Miss Song had not closed any appreciable distance on his scores over the last few days, though certainly not from a lack of effort on her part. She had taken out her frustration on McCree’s boots which were now sporting a bright pink bunny logo that had been crudely painted against the ancient leather, even though she hadn’t been anywhere near him since their parting in the shooting range. McCree had his suspicions on who she’d wrangled in to help her with the hit job.

The paint had already started to peel, but McCree was getting tempted to hand them over to Winston to see if the oversized monkey could whip something up to save them. His best attempts at scrubbing hadn’t garnered much success.

He picked up the spur, now separated from the grips, and gave it a flick. The action wasn’t as smooth as he liked it, so he picked up a rag and poured some industrial lubricant on it. He hadn’t had a chance to sit down and give Peacekeeper a thorough cleaning since before… his arm. He also hadn’t felt confident enough in the use of his new hand to try and tend to the only thing that had stuck through with him most of his life until now. It was also good fine-motor practice, even if it meant it was half as slow as he was used to. He’d gotten away with far too much negligence until now—although Peacekeeper usually didn’t need a good field strip more than a few times a year anyway.

He didn’t look up as Genji walked in.

“Hey Genji. If you wanna have a competition on the range, it’s gonna have to wait a spell.” Somehow he didn’t think that’s why Genji had sought him out. Especially not when Genji was still standing in the doorway, like an uninvited vampire.

The cowboy paused, “Unless you’re here to apologize for the state of my shoes?”

“One, you can’t prove that was me. Two, the underlying state of your shoes is a self-inflicted wound.” McCree snorted, but he didn’t miss the way that Genji still hovered just outside the room. He only had to ignore Genji a few more moments before he spoke again.

“McCree. I have a favor to ask you.”

“Shoot,” McCree didn’t look up from his task. Picking up the delicate screwdriver with his metal hand required a surprising amount of focus. Smaller objects were still difficult. The firmness of the object didn’t seem to matter. The lack of surface area seemed to limit the feedback.

Genji took in a deep breath and was unnaturally still for several moments. Even for Genji. “My brother will be visiting Hanamura soon. He and I have worked towards the same purpose for years, even if he does not realize this. I think it is time our paths aligned once again.”

McCree lifted his brows.  _ Now _ Genji had his attention. He looked up and pushed his safety glasses up his nose, assessing him closely, ”Well, okay. How you know he’s gonna show up, if I might ask? Seem to recall that yer brother was slippery back in the day.”

“I recently learned through some recovered communications that he always returns home on the same day. They have placed more guards in anticipation of his arrival.”

McCree tilted his head, running through a mental calendar. “Ain’t yer little anniversary already passed this year?”

“He returns on my birthday. Not the day he murdered me. Perhaps that would be too much. It is certainly what I would have expected. Perhaps that is why I was unable to find him before.”

“So what favor do you want from me, exactly?”

“I would like you to come with me. I can face my brother on my own, but I would feel better if you accompany me there.”

“You don’t wanna ask Zen Master?”

“Perhaps. I worry that if my brother agrees to come, he would find it… Too much. I am unsure what his physical or mental state might be. In any event, the clan is diminished but endures. Hanamura is still the stronghold for the Shimada. I may be dead, but my brother is not and, unlike myself, he has not ceased in his efforts to dismantle our family’s legacy. That alone is reason enough to approach him.”

Jesse shrugged. “I mean, I ain’t exactly eager to meet the guy who tried to flay you like nigiri, but he’s yer brother. You get to deal with him as you please.”

“Please, McCree. Sashimi would be more accurate. You know better.”

Jesse couldn’t help a dark chuckle, “Suppose that’s true.” The screwdriver McCree had been holding slipped from his inattentive grasp. He placed it to one side, as if it were intentional. “Anyway, sure I’ll come with ya. For moral support and all that.”

There was a rush of static as Genji let out a breath, “Thank you, McCree. Do be sure to brush up on your Japanese. With enough practice and a little luck, someone might actually be able to understand you.”

McCree rolled his eyes, “Remind me, is there a phrase in Japanese that translates to ‘rude-ass bitch’? Feel like I’m gonna need it.” He shook his head, and laughed along with Genji. The laughter quickly dissolved into a silence that set the hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck on end. Genji was still looming over him. Watching him.

Assessing him.

“See something you like? Peacekeeper ain’t for sale.” McCree reached for a bit of lubricant.

Genji shook his head once, “Nothing like that. Just thinking… I suppose there is no more dual wielding for you, given your condition.”

McCree shrugged and held up his left hand, “Don’t seem like there’s too many triggers that fit this damn thing. Works though, and until I customize something or find a grip that can handle it, I’m stuck with my single shooter. Don’t worry. I’m still at a hundred percent. Thanks for keeping Peacekeeper from going into the drink with me, by the way. Don’t think I mentioned how much I appreciated that.”

Genji snorted behind his faceplate, but McCree could easily picture his expression. “Only you, McCree, would choose his gun over your own safety.”

McCree let a smile creep over his lips, “Well, Peacekeeper’s probably more irreplaceable than me. Shove a scruffy jerk whose a decent shot into a pair of cowboy boots and you got another me on your hands.”

Genji snorted, “To be fair, I think you just described about ninety percent of the old Blackwatch roster. Minus the boots. Maybe you’re right.”

“’Course I’m right.”

Genji peered down at the table in front of McCree. “So what happened to Peacekeeper’s mate? Storage?”

“That’s one word for it,” McCree answered easily enough, but he kept his eyes on the cotton swatch now drinking in the lubricant greedily. Shit that’s probably too much. The minor crisis kept him grounded in the present and he grabbed a second cotton round (’borrowed’ from Phara’s nail care stash) and awkwardly pressed them together to transfer the excess. “Anyway, hope you weren’t expecting a present this year. Figure going along to help you square things with yer homocidal brother is gift enough. Though I suppose we can also just call it recompense for the shoe thing.”

Genji placed a hand over the green glowing ring at his chest, “You know I need to be spoiled, McCree. I expect  _ something. _ ”

McCree set the cloth on the end of the jag before stuffing it down the barrel of his gun, “Wasn’t all that training in Nepal supposed to rid you of all attachment to worldly possessions or some shit?”

Any time Genji made horse lips behind his mask was a treat with the synthesizer implanted in his throat, and it never failed to make McCree cackle. “Pff. It’s easy to give up your attachment to possessions when you can house your consciousness in a server farm somewhere, if you want.”

“So what do you have to do to prove your spiritual enlightenment then, if that’s the case? Doesn’t sound like much of a challenge.”

“That depends on who you ask.” Genji paused, and Jesse could tell from the tilt of Genji’s head that he was teetering on something. Whether to hold back or let something spill.

“Well?”

“There are some who choose to… What is the word? Reduce… simplify… ah, distill. There are some who choose to distill themselves down to their purest essence. They shed unnecessary data and programs until they can be housed in the simplest computing machine capable of holding their consciousness.”

“…You mean like a toaster or a smart fridge or something?”

“Precisely. It is similar to the practice of sokushinbutsu, I suppose. Pure asceticism.”

“Do I want to know what either of those words even mean?”

“Probably not. Human beings have done incredible things in the pursuit of enlightenment. Omnics are no different. We have monks who forced themselves to start mummifying while alive. Omnics reduce themselves down to the barest electric impulses and programs while still functioning. Extreme, but not the only things either omnic or human have done to surpass limitations. Master Sridatta has existed the longest in such a form. An old GameGo of all things, but Master Devdatta has achieved the most… simplified form and has been housed in a instant-serve coffee maker for a little under a year now, I think.”

“Can they… communicate in those forms?” Peacekeeper lay forgotten entirely. There was something morbidly fascinating about this. An aspect to omnic existence Jesse had never considered.

Genji clasped his hands behind his back and there was a sort of flatness to his tone, but Jesse could pick out the struggle there underneath the vocal assistance. Not that he blamed him. “No. Not with humans, at least. And Master Zenyatta tells me conversation at that level is… not meaningful to those of us who have not reached the same level of enlightenment. Master Devdatta has apparently… moved past the ability or need for conversation.”

“That’s actually kinda fucking creepy Genji.” Jesse could feel his skin start to crawl. The thought of being half alive, maybe not even that, and stuck in a piece of machinery until it broke down or ran out of power.

“It is beautiful,” Genji said the words with such force and tight shoulders Jesse had to wonder who he was trying to convince. “The purest form of being. At least, that is what I am told. I imagine it is difficult for organic life such as ourselves to understand.”

“Definitely over my head, that’s for damn sure.” McCree shook his head, and looked down at Peacekeeper again.

“If it makes you feel better, it’s certainly not for everyone.”

“Chyeah. I bet,” McCree rubbed what was left of his left arm. “Just warn me if Zen Master decides he wants to take up residence in our own kitchen somewhere.”

_ <Rest assured, Agent McCree, I would never allow such a breach of security protocols.> _

Athena’s intrusion into their conversation startled both of them into snickers.

“How disrespectful,” Genji said throatily, trying to contain his amusement.

_ <If Zenyatta wishes to engage in this practice, he is more than welcome to do so on a device that is neither connected to the Overwatch network, nor official equipment.> _

“Hear that Genji? Time to go back to school shopping and get your man a calculator.” The cyborg reached out and shoved Jesse in the shoulder. An admittedly dumb thing to do over an in-progress munitions cleaning, but they’d done far worse and gotten away with it.

“You are the worst.”

“I’m pretty sure that title belongs to you.”

“Since when?” Genji scoffed.

“How about since 0700 hours yesterday?”

“McCree, you wound me by holding such a grudge.”

McCree tipped his head at Genji, a not-quite amused smirk playing on his lips, “Thought you said I couldn’t prove nothing.”

“You can’t. Since when is your masculinity offended by such a gesture anyway?”

He rolled his eyes. Masculinity be damned, it had nothing to do with that—and McCree was plenty secure anyway. “Genji, I only have one pair of boots at the moment!”

Genji pressed his palms together and adopted a serene tone, “McCree, I feel that you would benefit from my master’s teachings. ‘All things are fleeting in this life.’”

“That  _ better _ be your way of saying this shit is temporary.” McCree glanced down at the pink monstrosities on the sides of his boots again. The fact that Genji had gotten involved was not the question, but how D.Va had turned him to her side.  _ Backstabber. _

“On the cosmic scale, all things are temporary.” McCree felt a surge of anger as he got to his feet. He could already hear the carbon fiber footsteps disappearing down the hall. McCree stalled at the door, unwilling to leave Peacekeeper alone in this state.  _ Fuck. _ McCree was willing to bet that was what Genji was counting on. He let out a growling sigh and let himself flop back down onto the chair, pulling back up to the table.

Despite his irritation, he smiled. Just for a moment. Then it all bled away as he picked up where he left off. Even the anger was gone, leaving him as hollow as the barrel of his gun.

**[July 17, 2072]**

It was strange, being back in Hanamura. It always was.

Even though Genji rarely returned, whenever he did, he felt strangely detached. Like a tourist.

Some of the shops had changed owners, changed functions, but very little of the landscape itself had changed. The same buildings from his childhood and his father’s father’s childhood before him stood in the village. And Shimada Castle stood as it had for hundreds of years. Behind high walls that he had climbed over hundreds of times.

It had stopped being home long before his brother tried to kill him and left him for dead.

It felt less like home than ever when he left it again. The spark of hope in his chest faded the further he got from the familiar walls, from his brother. He had called himself a fool, but he hadn’t considered how easily Hanzo could refuse the truth in front of him. It was only when he raced along the rooftops of Hanamura, evading the ever present net of security cameras in the urban landscape, that Genji truly considered how impossible it was to believe his brother would embrace his return. Perhaps it would always have been impossible, given their history.

This time, it felt like their roles had reversed, and Genji suddenly understood why Hanzo left all those years ago. How could he have stayed? This weight was  _ unbearable. _

It was late when he returned to their tiny ryokan, but he did as he was asked and rapped his knuckles against the wall. They had been fortunate to secure two rooms, given that there were only three available for rent. Had it not been for Zenyatta’s presence, they might have squeezed into a single room. McCree had been eager to stretch their budget, and rent all three rooms (to ensure that the communal facilities down the hall would become private), but Zenyatta sensibly pointed out that he had no need for rest as humans take, and that he would hate to deny someone else a possible place of shelter. The cowboy reluctantly conceded to Zenyatta’s logic, and they ended up with two rooms.

Genji was only slightly surprised when McCree’s door slid open in a matter of seconds. His bounty must have been easier to capture than anticipated. Or the target had given McCree the slip. One or the other.

“So… how’d it go?” McCree was comically large in the door frame. It only marginally lifted Genji’s spirits. He wondered for a moment if it was even possible to explain all of his emotions. The expectations and hopes and fears that went unrealized.

“It was… enlightening I suppose. I learned more than I expected to about my brother’s state of being.”

“Anything interesting?” McCree rested his weight against the frame.

“He is not well. If he continues as he has, I believe he may even be in danger. I hope he will take this offer seriously. There may be no saving him otherwise.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was able to turn his dragons _ against _ him. I did not expect them to take so readily to my command. Hanzo’s control must be very light if I was able to do that much. I had only anticipated being able to divert their strike.”

“I won’t pretend to understand, but sure sounds bad when you put it that way.”

“If they reject him as a host, they might kill him. If Hanzo doesn’t have enough strength to govern them, they may not understand the difference between protecting him and destroying him anymore. That is the easiest way to put it, if not completely accurate.”

“Pretty severe consequences for having a light hand on the reins.”

“Reyes likely saved me from a similar fate. He made it clear I would only be able to participate in missions if I did not call on the dragon. My control was… practically non-existent then. I think the focus on my new body was perhaps enough discipline that they did not rebel and attempt to lash out at everyone around me, but I could have been consumed just as easily in those days.”

McCree went very still and quiet. His gaze was focused somewhere in the distance, but Genji was willing to bet whatever McCree saw was several thousand miles from here. And several years ago. Before Genji could make a remark, McCree recovered his wits.

“Well, makes sense. In a really weird mystical sorta way.”

Genji sighed, a sense of weary defeat settling over his bones. “I am going to go pack up so we can… leave in the morning.” He started to move towards the door. McCree reached out to grab him by the wrist. He felt the pull on his shoulder before he registered the feedback of pressure where McCree’s hand of flesh and blood held him captive.

“Hey, wait. You sure you’re okay?” Of  _ course _ McCree could see through him. He’d  _ always _ been able to see through him. The fact that he had a cyborg body and kept his face enclosed had never prevented McCree from seeing through him even  _ once _ . A hot, painful tear slid between the space between his cheek and the carbon plating that protected him from the outside world. Genji reached up and unhooked the face plating for the second time that day. He cursed under his breath as he wiped at the wetness under his eyes, his thumb hard and unyielding. McCree passed him a crumpled bandanna from his back pocket. Genji pressed it against his eyes and he felt the pressure of McCree’s arms around him. He only felt the heat from McCree’s body against his cheek as the man pulled him in, and let Genji settle his chin on his shoulder. He kept the paisley covered fabric pressed against his streaming eyes as he awkwardly clutched at McCree.

«I… I’m sorry,» tears slid down Genji’s face; he could feel them follow the scars left behind by his brother, diverted from their natural path.

“Shh, nah. Don’t be sorry. You’re fine,” Genji heard the sound of McCree’s fingers tracing along his back. He couldn’t feel the motion, but he could picture it. His mind could fill in the missing pieces.

Crying was not something Genji enjoyed after his reconstruction. If anything could unravel his work towards making peace with himself and his body it was this. The sensation of tears where his lids and cybernetic eyes met was unpleasant, and should not have hurt so much given that his cybernetic eyes didn’t contribute any sensation towards the experience. Crying brought back the worst of everything. From the night he nearly died and everything that happened after. Nausea filled his belly and made him feel hot and dizzy. Genji almost laughed as he felt a small stream of nanobots release into his bloodstream.

Almost.

Genji sucked in a shaky breath, dabbing at his face uselessly. He didn’t know why he was so disappointed. It had been foolish to think that Hanzo would simply accept him after all this time, accept he was still alive, much less his forgiveness. Yet it felt like Hanzo had tried to cut him out of his life again. Just as painful as before, despite wielding a different weapon.

«I thought I could save him. I almost killed him. I wanted to, just for a moment. I thought I was over that! He nearly let me. He would have let me do it. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be him.» Genji delivered most of his rant into his fist and the crumpled bandanna.

“C’mere, let’s sit you down,” McCree guided him towards the bed. The mattress sank beneath their combined weight. Genji attempted to wipe his face again, but the bandanna was completely soaked through at this point. The only thing it succeeded in doing was smearing mucus across his cheek.

«It never occurred to me… after all this time. I never thought—» Genji choked on his words. He always felt like he was drowning in his own body when he cried, but he hadn’t had tears in this measure before. It was suffocating. 

“But, hey, look at you. Look at how far you’ve come. Gone from wanting the man dead to cryin’ over the thought of him not coming home.” It was something, as McCree was so fond of saying.

«It’s like my brother died, McCree. I don’t know if my words will reach him.»

“Look, I haven’t caught everything you’ve been saying, but I know enough to know that you’ve been talking way too much about death, alright? You and Hanzo are both still alive, right?”

«I suppose that is one way of looking at things.» Jesse sighed deeply, and Genji already knew McCree didn’t have to understand his words to recognize this ancient song and dance. It was pathetic, and he was supposed to have moved past this. He tightened his grip on the bandana.

“Seems a shame to fly so far and give up on hoping now. I mean. We flew, what? Twenty hours to get here?”

“Stop,” Genji let the words fly out of his mouth more sharply than he intended. He didn’t want reassurance.

“Now are you accusing little ol’ me of something? I’m hurt.” The old Genji would have let himself be drawn into McCree’s harmless distraction. The second part of their two step dance. He couldn’t really blame McCree for trying out the tried and true tack. The old Genji seemed to be making his grand reappearance but the new Genji—the present Genji—had learned a  _ little _ in the intervening years.

“Just shut up and hold me, McCree.” He felt McCree stiffen, even with his cyborg body, but the man complied with his wishes. Genji almost regretted the silence that followed. Almost.

He was tired. Some of that irritation had transferred over to McCree, but Genji knew the man could bear it and get over it.

There was a scar on his side where McCree had held him together on a mission gone wrong that still throbbed any time a storm front rolled in. The cowboy had refused to let him go, kept him in enough of one piece until help arrived. And McCree was as good as he ever was at holding open wounds closed. It wasn’t the first time he’d held this one, but it had been a long while. So Genji let McCree do what he did best, and let the man hold him while he bled out his pain in silence. All the while trying to ignore the fact that he apparently had a near-infinite supply of tears.

Genji moved away from McCree eventually. It felt like his face was encrusted in salt—though probably worse. “Thank you, McCree.” Genji got to his feet. “Uh, should I…?” He held out the still-damp bandanna.

McCree waved him off with a gesture. “Keep it for now. Give it back after you send it through the wash.”

“Of course. I will see you in the morning for check out.”

“You gonna be okay?”

Genji nodded slowly, “Yes, I will. The disappointment will pass. Good night, McCree.”

Genji collected himself before sliding the door to his own room open. He didn’t respond to Zenyatta’s soft greeting. His carbon fiber legs seemed to weigh more than usual. A stupid, made-up perception of his mind seeing as how he couldn’t really  _ feel _ them. His heavy footsteps filled the room as he tipped forward and let gravity introduce him face-first to the mattress.

The combined humming of his own cybernetics and Zenyatta’s filled the silence. Tense, but somehow comfortable.

Familiar.

When Genji finally turned his head, he saw Zenyatta floating beside the bed, hands neatly arrayed into a perfect dhyana mudra. The fingers of his right hand laid over the left, palms facing upwards, his mechanical thumbs touching.

“Good evening, master.”

“Good evening, my student.”

“I met my brother today.”

“Indeed.” Zenyatta said no more.

“You will not ask me how it went?” This dance was familiar, but Genji had thought it abandoned.

“You will tell me, when you are ready. Did you wish to talk about it now?”

Genji shifted a bit and dragged a pillow beneath his chin. “I have spoken of him so much, what more could I possibly have to say?” He was wallowing, and he knew it, but he  _ needed _ to.

“We have spoken of the past. Tonight was meant to be about your shared future.”

“There is no future,” Genji pronounced bleakly.

“You have a future, my student,” Zenyatta’s words were still patient, but there was a firmness there that told Genji he was running into his master’s limit for self-pity.

“I do, but my brother is not in it!” How could his master not understand?

“Then there has been no change from your life as it is now.”

Genji pushed himself up on his hands, “ _ It still hurts! _ ” His breathing was ragged and Genji felt shame creeping up his neck hot and unbearable. He was certain that McCree had heard that through the paper thin walls.

“Ahhh,” Zenyatta’s hands shifted to rest on his knees.

Genji sighed and flopped back down on the bed, too exhausted to resist the lesson anymore. “It hurts, and I’m lonely,” Genji spoke the words into his pillow. He could feel pressure on his shoulder where Zenyatta pressed his metal fingers.

“Pain lets you know that you still live, Genji. It is a great teacher, though not a kind one.”

“Not like you,” he couldn’t help the wry twist of his lips.

“Even less kind,” Zenyatta agreed solemnly. Genji let out a bitter laugh, still full of disappointment.

“It hurts more than I thought it would. I knew that there was only a slim chance of convincing my brother to join us. I  _ know _ that.”

“Pain is the price we pay for hope. A small price, I think, in the grand scheme of things.”

“Hope, huh?” Genji reached up and wiped away some wetness gathering at his eyelids. “How terrible.”

“It is a great burden, to be alive,” Zenyatta agreed. “You have shouldered that weight admirably. I believe you are up to this challenge.”

Genji closed his eyes. He heard the faint hum of his master’s propulsion and a moment later metal fingertips carded through his hair. “My brother called me a fool.”

Zenyatta said nothing.

“He refused to believe it was me. He did not dare to hope, even when I turned the dragons against him. Even after he saw mine.”

The sound of metal threading through hair filled the room.

“I don’t think he wants my forgiveness.”

Zenyatta’s silence was nearly unbearable, but Genji let out a tight breath and further bared his soul.

“I nearly killed him.”

The metal digits stopped their quest for just a moment, but then Genji felt a second hand join them.

“I worry that I have,” Genji let this whisper be swallowed by the pillow.

“You do not have control over your brother’s actions, Genji.” Zenyatta’s assurance floated down from above. “Nor his feelings. Hold on to your hope, let it propel you through the pain. Nothing about the future is certain. You have left the opportunity for reconciliation open to him. That is all you can do.”

Genji clutched his pillow so tightly he hoped it wouldn’t tear beneath his hands. Zenyatta read the motion easily, “I understand you desire to control the outcome, but you cannot. A gardener may provide a seed the best care, but if it is dead, nothing can force it to grow. By the same token, a heavy hand—even one full of love—can smother it and prevent any chance of germination.”

Genji let out another sigh as the cool tips of Zenyatta’s fingers rubbed at the base of his neck, skating the line of where the hairline ended.

He knew it was true, but it would take time to let go of the want and pain and only grasp onto hope.

A fool’s hope.

But if there was  _ one _ good thing about the old Genji it was that he had always held on hope for the two of them until the bitter end.

Perhaps it was time to do so again.

\----

The next morning they vacated the room quickly, making sure to erase any trace that they had been there. A tiny virus on their credit card would ensure that their stay would be deleted from the ryokan’s ancient data management system twelve hours after they departed.

They huddled out of sight of the closed circuit cameras that encircled the airport in order to eat their street food breakfast. McCree had been mostly quiet this morning, other than the confirmation that the bounty hunt had been successful. He could tell that the man was ‘holding something under his hat’ as the cowboy would say. It was annoying, but Genji didn’t have it in him to fish for it. McCree waited until Genji was halfway through his takoyaki before finally speaking. “So uh, I didn’t wanna tell you this last night but…”

“ _ What, _ McCree?” Genji was probably less charitable than he should have been, given how good his companion had been to him last night. On the other hand, he was exhausted and still emotionally spent.

“I didn’t exactly stay out of trouble.”

Genji had to roll the words around in his head several times before he could interpret them, “What?”

“There was a hold up. A shake down.” McCree rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “I kinda stepped in.”

“Where?”

“Rikimaru.”

“That was  _ you?” _

“Oh, you heard already?”

“McCree, I read the news every morning.” Genji pinched the bridge of his nose. “Couldn’t you have stuck to your bounty?”

“Why? You upset cause I dared stand up to yer family in their territory? Didn’t use to bother you.”

Genji opened his mouth to deny it, but he closed it again just as quickly. He  _ was _ angry with McCree. A tiny seed of indignation was lodged in his chest. The tiniest sliver of attachment for his home.

“I… I am. I shouldn’t be.” He worried at his lower lip.

McCree shrugged it off, as he did so many things. “Old habits, huh?”

“I suppose so.” He let out a long sigh through his nose. “Good job, McCree. The attention is, perhaps, unwelcome, but you were right to act as you did.”

“Don’t worry, I got Morricone on it. Should have something up by noon local time.”

Genji rolled his eyes, “Of course you do. Never pass up an opportunity to comment on your own heroics, do you?”

“Hey, hey! I don’t say a goddamn thing. Morricone’s just got  _ opinions _ about the world we live in, that’s all.” Genji couldn’t help but snort into the remains of his takoyaki at McCree’s smile, and promised himself he’d buy the man a new set of boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-daaa! I am so excited because we are now officially on the precipice of Hanzo Shimada is very definitely going to appear as showing up in this fic and is retiring from the role of _Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Film._ I have also been working on my other stuff too, and apologize for the slow updates. I promise lots of writing has been going on behind the scenes but there's a lot of irons I have in the fire lol
> 
> Chapter title is from One Republic's "Counting Stars"
> 
> Thank you again to my lovely Frankenmouse for beta-ing this chapter!


	5. You need a witness just to know you're there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected but invited visitor appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up there is some talk/depictions of dissociation and the general idea of suicidal ideation (without actual suicidal ideation) in this chapter.

**[June 16, 2055]**

“McCree. This is my daughter. I want you to watch her for the afternoon.”

“What?! I mean, Captain Amari ain’t there someone more… uh… suitable?” When McCree told Amari he was willing to do anything to get lessons from her, he wasn’t expecting _this_ to be sprung upon him.

“You said you wanted to learn from me, did you not? This is my price, Agent McCree. Unless of course you’re too _scared_ of my little girl.”

There’s a canny gleam in the little girl’s eye and McCree isn’t so sure that this isn’t some kind of trap. The captain herself sounds far too amused.

But he _really_ wants to learn from Amari.

“No.”

“Good. Jesse, this is Fareeha. Fareeha, this is Jesse, Jesse McCree. He’s going to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t get into trouble. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with the munitions storage in Cairo, do we?”

_What kind of incident happened in the munitions storage!?_

“No mama.”

“Why don’t you go get some juice, and I’ll just have a few more words with Jesse.”

The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end now. Captain Amari is silent. She narrows her eyes after a moment and as Jesse looks over his shoulder, he catches a flash of black hair as Fareeha disappears around the corner into the kitchen. As soon as she’s certain they aren’t being watched, the captain lays into him.

“This is your mission, McCree. If she has so much as a _papercut_ or learns any new curse words when I get back, they won’t find your body. Trust me.” He believes Captain Amari _implicitly_ and he fights a shiver. Amari raises her voice so Fareeha can hear, “Have fun you two!”

“Wait—Captain!”

The door is already closed behind her.

Before he can tell her that he’s changed his mind.

McCree almost jumps out of his skin when he turns around and sees Fareeha standing there silently, a bottle of juice in hand.

_Ana give this kid stealth training or what? Christ._

He’s not sure what to do in this situation. Those huge, dark eyes are taking him in. Jesse stands up a little taller. He’s basically an adult. He can just tell her to watch TV or something, right? She’s old enough to entertain herself.

“What’s the tattoo for? It’s so big and ugly!”

Jesse opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s pretty sure telling Captain Amari’s kid it’s a gang tattoo is not going to reflect well on his chances for getting personal marksman training from one of the greatest snipers on the planet.

“It’s a birthmark.”

“Don’t treat me like a dumbass just because I’m thirteen!”

Jesse kneels down a bit, so that they’re at eye level, “Say, what curse words _do_ you know?”

The smile that spreads across Fareeha’s face is way too knowing. Jesse wonders how many babysitters have been buried by this kid’s antics. “Why don’t you tell me the ones that _you_ know? Then I’ll tell you if I know them.”

“Uh, ‘cause I enjoy living?”

“That’s no fun!”

“Yeah well tough shhhhhortcake. C’mon. We’re gonna go see a friend.” He takes Pharah firmly by the arm, though he holds her at a distance, just in case she tries to bite.

It doesn’t take long before Jesse’s pounding on Reyes’s door.

Fareeha rolls her eyes, “This isn’t gonna work. You can’t just go back on your word, you know.”

“Quiet. What your momma doesn’t know can’t hurt me.” He strikes the door again, trying to make a point. “Reyes. Open up. _Reyes!_ C’mon jefe. I need a hand out here. Ana dropped something on me.” There’s a long enough pause that Jesse wonders if he needs to go to Jack’s room instead. Just as he’s about to give up, the door hisses open.

Gabriel takes one look at the passenger at Jesse’s side and the door closes in their faces. “Aw, c’mon boss! Help me out! I’m not qualified to watch a kid, Captain’s crazy to pass this job onto me.” Jesse pounds on the door again and it slides back open.

“Sounds to me like this mission was given to _you_ Jesse. Besides, Ana doesn’t let me watch the kid anymore. I’m not allowed.”

“But Reyes—”

“But _nothing._ This is an order you were given by your superior officer, and I’m not gonna interfere with the chain of command here.” Typical. Man’ll bend over backwards to tweak Jack’s nose, but lives in mortal fear of Ana.

Not that Jesse blames him.

“C’mon, jefe can’t we at least hang out here? I don’t wanna be by myself with… it’s weird! I’m a grown-ass man and she’s old enough to mind herself.” When Jesse was her age he’d already run away from an endless stream of foster homes and a system too swollen with need and stretched too thin with resources in world that didn’t know the end of the omnic crisis was still two years away.

“McCree if you put in half the effort you do into complaining into training you wouldn’t _need_ lessons from Amari.”

“This is stupid and it’s some kinda hazing. Extortion. Getting free labor out of her subordinates.”

“Whatever it is, Amari had her reasons for doing it, and I’m _not_ gonna interfere, so quit your…” Gabriel pauses, and the relief they both feel is palpable. _Dodged a bullet there._

This still doesn’t solve McCree’s more immediate problem. “What am I supposed to do with her!?”

“I dunno, figure it out for yourself. Ask _her_ what she wants to do. Sorry, ‘Reeha,” Gabe reaches over to tousle the girl’s hair affectionately. “Now get out of here. Last thing I need is another Cairo on my hands.”

The door closes in Jesse’s face again.

“What the _fuck_ happened in Cairo!?” There is a delighted gasp about two feet below him and behind his elbow, and Jesse can already feel the cold fingers of death trailing down his spine.

The expression on Fareeha’s face is one of pure, unbridled delight and she shouts the forbidden word at the top of her tiny lungs.

McCree buries his face in his hands, “Aw _SHIT!”_

**[August 11, 2072]**

“You need to stop antagonizing your neighbors,” Angela finished off her last stitch, studying his hand before she cut the threads short. Jesse watched in fascination, as well as appreciation. Dr. Ziegler always left the smallest, most invisible sutures imaginable.

“Fuckers were supposed to be gone ages ago. How was I supposed to know one of the kids had taken up residence for good?” McCree had all but thrown a raging bender when he realized the merlins had finally grown up and the parents vacated the premises. Until one of the juveniles from the brood dive-bombed him when he was trying to have a decent smoke without trudging halfway across the base to roast in the late summer heat.

He conveniently kept that part from Dr. Ziegler.

“Well, try and take care of your hand for the next few days. I don’t imagine it will cause any great issue but keep it clean and don’t overwork it or else you’ll undo the stitches. I’ll have scar treatment ready for you in a few days, I worry that two scars like that near the base of your wrist might start impacting the mobility of your thumb.”

“Thanks,” McCree rotated his hand carefully, still numb from the local anesthesia Angie had given him.

“How is your other hand doing?”

Jesse chuckled darkly, “You mean my lack of hand?”

“You know what I meant. The phantom pain. Is it improving? You haven’t been in to see me about it in a few months, but I am not sure how much I trust that endorsement.” For a moment, Jesse could see just how _weary_ Angela was. He wondered what she looked like when she was managing a whole hospital, not just a dozen or so folks who risked life and limb far too often.

Or maybe her emotional investment made the burden just as heavy.

“It’s better, actually.” McCree shrugged, “Breakin’ into the painkillers less and less, and the thing Satya gave me seems to work pretty good as a stand in for your VR or mirror therapy, or whatever.”

Dr. Ziegler smiled at him, and her relief seemed to cross the line between personal and professional. “Good! I’m glad to hear it. Speaking of therapy,” Angela steepled her fingers and Jesse felt a curl of dislike and nausea thread his stomach like more of the doc’s fine needlework. “I want you to consider that it may be time to pursue some.”

“What for?” Jesse tried to shrug it off with a smile and his playful, dumb _‘who me?’_ act. It probably would have worked better on someone who didn’t know him half as well.

“Shall I give you an itemized list? I shudder to think what mental scars Blackwatch left you with, but your _arm_ McCree. You should talk with someone.”

Jesse snorted, and wrapped his arms around his gut, “I’m just fine darlin’, but thanks for the consideration.”

“Do not insult my intelligence, Jesse McCree.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he inclined his head, a small concession. He was clever, sure, but Dr. Ziegler had him beat in the brains department all day long.

“Why are you being difficult about this? Have you told _anyone_ what happened? It isn’t good to keep things like that bottled up. I don’t care if it is me or someone else, you _need_ to talk about it with someone.”

“Always favored actions over words, Doc,” McCree shrugged, arms still wrapped around his churning guts.

“McCree. Therapy. You _need_ it.”

“Not ready,” McCree ground out the words in hopes that it would get Angela to relent. It wasn’t a total lie. He _wasn’t_ ready to talk about it. If he was _never_ ready to talk about it with anyone, well, that was a minor detail.

“Well, when you _are_ ready, Athena does have some capabilities, if you want to take advantage of those.”

“I’ll be sure to get _right_ on that. In the meantime, how about we just broadcast all my psychological weaknesses straight into Talon’s databases along with my personnel profiles, huh?”

Angela rolled her eyes, “Is _that_ what this is about?”

_ <I can assure you, Agent McCree, that my therapy programs are quite secure. I only maintain as much data as necessary to—> _

“Skip it. Hard no. Pass.”

_ <Very well, Agent McCree.> _ He wasn’t sure if the AI program was insulted or not. He thought Athena sounded a bit frosty, however.

“McCree, please believe me when I say you would benefit from this.”

“I’m sure I would, doc. Now tell me where I’m supposed to take my wanted ass, and I’ll go.”

“I have connections, I’m sure I could find someone…”

“Someone who is a law-abiding and upstanding citizen that you might endanger by putting me in regular contact with them. No thanks. I’ve been going it alone for a while now, Angie, I’ll be fine. I’ll deal with my own shit, in my own time.”

“You cannot remain this stubborn and obstinate forever, McCree. I will find a way to break you.”

“Doesn’t that go against some kinda oath you took?” He fixed a smile at the good doctor.

“There are certainly days where I regret taking some of those vows, yes.” McCree chuckled at the little furrow between Mercy’s brow and decided to skedaddle before she trapped him in another pointless, circular conversation about therapy or the virtues of giving up smoking.

**[October 13, 2072]**

“What do you feel in this moment, my student?”

“Dizzy,” Genji grunted. He’d been holding himself up on his hands for ten minutes and fifty-three seconds. The blue sky outlining his master’s form was disorienting and blinding.

“Emotionally?”

Genji closed his eyes and took in another breath, relishing in the struggle. Even in his cyborg form, inversion was a challenge. One of the few he had left, even if it was easier for him than his fully human counterparts.

“Frustrated. Bored. Angry. Pissed. Restless. Empty.” Genji grunted and shifted in his stance. “You?”

“Hm,” Zenyatta took a moment to consider his answer. “Proud. Happy.”

Genji shifted and the world was a blur of color as he flipped down and rolled upright. “Why do you say proud?” Genji braced his hands on his knees, riding out the rush of blood receding from his head.

“There was a time where you would have listed those all in a single emotion, where you would have denied that you experienced them. You have improved your emotional awareness so much since we first met.” The tabard-like red cloth hanging from Zenyatta’s form pooled next to Genji’s feet as his master propelled himself closer. Zenyatta extended his hands, though he seemed content enough to wait for the blood rush to fade enough for Genji to take them. “Besides, you have also just returned from an officially-sanctioned mission. It is a good sign for this nascent rebirth. I have high hopes that Overwatch will become something different and better than what it used to be.”

Genji huffed out a chuckle, “We were a contracted task force. Officially sanctioned mercenaries not operating under the name of Overwatch.”

“You were still doing good work, and it was not from the shadows.”

Genji shrugged before he took Zenyatta’s hands, “I am comfortable there. It is where I have done most of my work. You are just jealous we were fighting pirates.”

Zenyatta let out a laugh and helped Genji get to his feet. “I am merely glad that the opportunity to fight pirates on the Adriatic Sea gave you the opportunity to stand in the sun. Even if only for a little while.”

“It was a nice change of pace from bounty hunting, I will admit.” Genji looked down and realized he was still holding Zenyatta’s hands. His heart started pounding, as if he were still on the skiff chasing down the last of their targets.

_ <Agent Shimada, there is activity by the northeastern cliffs.> _

“The macaques _again?”_ Genji groaned, tearing his hands away. He’d thought they’d finally seen the last of those beasts after Winston’s last plan on Tuesday. Damn things were getting smarter, he was sure of it.

_ <No. There is an intruder.> _

“What!? Where are the alarms!?” Genji reached back for the hilt of his _wakizashi._

_ <None yet. Rest assured, my systems have not been compromised.> _

Genji gave Zenyatta a nervous glance. “Are you certain? Why have you not sounded your alarms if your systems are not compromised?”

_< Because I believe this intruder was invited.>_

Genji looked over at his master, utterly confused. Zenyatta straightened his posture ever so slightly—in the way that meant his master was communicating on a digital level with Athena. Clearly he had received information that Genji was not privy to, even as a cyborg.

_ <I think it would be best for you to greet our… arrival before anyone else does.> _

“You should listen to Athena, my student. It would be most beneficial.”

Genji slowly uncurled his fingers from the hilt of his sword, and let his posture relax. “Wh-”

“Let us go see, Genji.” He wanted to laugh as Zenyatta maneuvered behind him and started gently shoving him forward. It wouldn’t be the first time Zenyatta had given him a gentle push. Genji started jogging, mindful of the fact that his master was not the most gifted in the realm of speed, toward the northeast portion of the watch point.

When he cleared the last tower, what he saw brought him to a skidding halt, and he was vaguely aware of Zenyatta colliding into his shoulder.

_“Hanzo?”_

There was his brother, standing at the edge of the cliffs he’d just scaled. There was (ostensibly) an instrument case under his arm that clearly held his bows, a duffel bag and a quiver slung across his back, and another duffel grasped tightly in his hand, like an anchor. He looked almost the same as he had in July only… perhaps a bit rougher around the edges. Not quite as clean and put together as he had for a trip onto sacred ground.

Hanzo stilled as he caught sight of Genji. In the back of his head, Genji heard a voice warning him that his brother was here to finish what he started ten years ago. The old Genji still wary of the wounds his older brother had inflicted.

He was dizzy again, and he folded his legs underneath himself, dropping to the ground with a thud.

They stared at each other in a painful silence. One Genji could feel along his scars and all the places Angela had stitched him back together. He pressed a hand against the plating that covered his abdomen. _I don’t know what to do._

Genji nearly jumped as he felt Zenyatta’s hand curl around his shoulder—applying enough pressure that he could feel it.

Slowly, Genji reached up to unhook his mask. The sound of it caused the first bit of motion from Hanzo, who looked away. He decided not to relent and bared his face to Hanzo.

«I did not think you would come.»

Hanzo’s answer sounded as though it were very far away. «Neither did I.»

Genji opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took in a heavy breath and tried again. «You didn’t have to wait like this. You could have come with me before.»

Hanzo gave a non-committal half-shrug in response.

Genji blinked, still stunned. «I… was there a reason you decided to sneak in the back way?» Hanzo shrugged again, and Genji found himself irritated with the fact that his brother was suddenly more recalcitrant than ever. «This isn’t our home, you know. You could have come up the path. You didn’t have to sneak in.» He tried out a grin, but it felt more like a grimace as it twisted his face. A wasted gesture since Hanzo refused to look him in the eye.

Genji sighed and found himself trying to pinpoint where his brother’s gaze rested. «Why are you here?»

The sound of several bags falling to the ground drew Genji’s gaze back to his brother. He was shocked to see the bow carrier dropped so carelessly to the ground, but his protests were silenced by his brother dropping to his knees, hands and forehead pressed flat into the ground.

As an heir to a yakuza empire, Genji had seen more than his share of _dogeza_. More than the average person, but he had never, in his life, seen Hanzo perform such a degrading gesture of absolute humility.

«I have a debt. I do not ask forgiveness.» Hanzo spoke into the dirt, leaving himself exposed, should Genji wish to pull out his sword and cut off his head. It was somehow worse than their fight on the grounds where he had almost died. «It was wrong of me to attempt to fight you before. Had I known your identity I would not have attempted to fight you at all. I would have let you take your rightful vengeance. You have it now, if you wish.»

Genji took in a deep breath and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, carbon fiber pressing against the ridge of his brows. «I forgave you, Hanzo.» He let out a deep breath and got to his feet, but Hanzo remained supplicated and speaking from some memorized, heartfelt speech Genji had already tuned out of. _How did Zenyatta ever have such patience with me?_ «Get up.»

Hanzo immediately went silent, and there was a moment of hesitation before he started pushing himself back up, blinking at Genji in confusion.

«Get up. On your feet, Hanzo.» He reached down to offer his brother a hand up, but Hanzo stared at it like it was an alien implement. Genji started counting his breaths but, eventually, Hanzo got back to his feet. Without Genji’s help. «Alright, anija, let us… get permission for you to stay.»

Hanzo looked down, hands folded in front of his body, as if waiting to be chained and led. Genji sighed and picked up Hanzo’s things, throwing one duffel over his shoulder. He picked up the weapons carrier next. He could almost see the calculations playing out in Hanzo’s head as he finally dared to look at him, and Genji handed the box to Zenyatta.

«Do not go looking for your death here, brother.» He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an order. Hanzo returned his gaze to his feet. He fell into shuffle between Genji and Zenyatta. It wasn’t until Genji had opened a set of doors leading into base that Hanzo spoke again, words almost lost to the pneumatic hiss.

«I would not deprive you of what is rightfully yours.»

\----

Hanzo stared at the gleaming surface of the table. It was easier than trying to track the movement of every body in the room. There was the blond woman, the doctor, pacing slowly and thoughtfully by the window. The dark-skinned woman in the Raptora armor brooding in the corner and staring at him as though daring him to step out of line. _Helix Security._ He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she was the only one. From his experience Helix units never operated in teams of anything less than six. There was the squat man with the claw prosthetic out of the Saturday morning cartoons of his youth, who nursed his chipped mug of coffee like a festering wound. A grizzled old soldier sat across from him; visor silently boring into him. This man was possibly the greatest threat in the room, something about the way he held himself gave it away. There was the giant gorilla—though Hanzo could not fathom why he was sharing the room with an animal over a hundred kilos in weight, unless they planned to let it tear him limb from limb for sport—the floating omnic, and most improbably of all… his brother.

Or what was left of him.

Hanzo closed his eyes and let out a sigh, trying to ground himself in the moment to be _present_ for whatever… this was going to be. The detachment he felt was, perhaps, slightly preferable to plotting everyone’s execution and his escape route. He didn’t have the energy or the mental capacity for that kind of calculus at the moment.

They may have called this a _meeting room_ (and the window to Gibraltar’s outdoors certainly suggested it was, in fact, a conference room), but the occupants made it quite clear this was an interrogation, nonetheless.

The giant gorilla made a surprisingly human noise, like clearing his throat. Hanzo slowly opened his eyes, his body heavy and tired. “So, uh,” for the first time, Hanzo realized that there was a set of black frame glasses perched delicately on the nose of this beast as the being adjusted them, “we, uh, weren’t really expecting you? Mr. Shimada.”

“Glasses?” Hanzo blinked slowly. He should have questioned the beast’s power of speech, but the same heaviness that had settled over him robbed him of the sensation of surprise.

“Uh, yes. Ahem, don’t, uh, don’t worry about them. I… admit I am somewhat at a loss as to what to do here.” The sound of the gorilla drumming the table with his huge fingers was too much to bear, but Hanzo found himself unable to protest. “Uh, I suppose introductions are in order. I am Winston the, uh, Strike Commander for this… operation.”

Hanzo said nothing in response to the introduction. This was not a conversation he had a script for. He waited.

The gorilla seemed… uncomfortable. Another human-adjacent gesture as Winston glanced around the room nervously. “A-anyone else, want to chime in here?”

“Why are you here?” the woman in the armor bit out the question harshly. Hanzo didn’t flinch so much as lift a shoulder to try and protect himself from the sound—several seconds too late.

“Ask my brother.”

“I invited Hanzo here,” Hanzo tried to hunch into his shoulders again.

He wanted to escape the sound of what Genji’s voice had become.

“Without telling us,” the visor finally spoke, his voice low and just as dangerous as Hanzo imagined it might sound.

“I told McCree. And Zenyatta.” There was the faintest sound as Genji leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, his hands clasping together with the barest sounds of hard surfaces touching.

The visor across from him growled—and Hanzo felt a strange, invisible, cold vise holding his guts. A moment later he realized it was something like fear, and that he wouldn’t have felt anything at all if Winston had produced such a sound. “Of course you did. Should have known you had an ulterior motive for going to Hanamura.” The man’s leather jacket creaked as he crossed his arms. “Why didn’t Athena—of course. Jesse.” The man with the claw arm made a quizzical noise, but red light of the visor scanned back and forth _no._ Whatever he wanted to say apparently couldn’t be said in mixed company. “Fine. I expect that shit from McCree, but why did _you,”_ the visor motioned toward the floating omnic at Genji’s side, “conceal that from us?”

“I was not asked, and I am not officially part of this organization. I am here at Genji’s behest—much like his brother. Furthermore, it has been made quite clear to me that my input is… unwelcome on certain matters.” The omnic’s tones were the most soothing sound this room had produced so far.

“Bullshit,” groused the visor.

“I have been explicitly told not to interfere in matters of intelligence. I have respected your wishes,” Hanzo couldn’t be sure, but thought he caught a bit of… smugness from the omnic. The visor growled again, but no one—human or otherwise—contradicted this… Zenyatta any further.

Genji’s hands clicked as he squeezed his fingers tighter. “I believe my brother should be given a chance, he is a skilled fighter, he could be a great asset to us—”

“Or he could be a huge security risk and a liability,” the woman in the corner hadn’t taken her eyes off Hanzo, but she finally flicked her gaze over to Genji to make sure he was aware of her displeasure.

“He is here _now,”_ Genji pointed out, a glimmer of the impatience Hanzo remembered shining through. “The damage is done.”

“Yes, let us speak of damage,” the doctor by the window finally stopped pacing and pulled her hands from the pockets of her lab coat. “Can we truly be assured that history will not repeat itself?”

“Angela—Dr. Ziegler, I would not have invited my brother here if I thought he was the same man as he was ten years ago.”

“He could be worse,” the comment was casual, off-handed, and made her Germanic accent all the easier to detect. Hanzo had the vague sense that he should be offended by the fact that they were speaking of him as if he were not in the room.

It hardly mattered since what they were saying was true.

Genji slapped his palm against the table and the sound of it caused a collective flinch, “I do not _need_ you to _manage_ my relationship with my brother just because _you_ were the one who rebuilt me!”

The cold discomfort that settled in Hanzo’s intestines that seemed to be shared by everyone else in the room in the silence that followed his brother’s outburst.

“That was not my intention—” Dr. Ziegler finally whispered in a rush, after catching her breath.

“I respect that my brother’s actions in the past make it difficult to trust him, but I am not asking for protection. Or perfection. I imagine the journey to reconciliation will be… difficult,” Genji glanced over at Hanzo—or he assumed, as the visor covered his expression—and nodded gently, “but my brother deserves a chance to put his talents towards something good.”

“You’re doing an awful lot of talking on your brother’s behalf,” the visor noted wryly. “Can he string more than three words together and _tell_ us what he wants?”

Hanzo trained his eyes on the table again as he felt the weight of five sets of eyes (minus the one the claw-handed man was missing) and whatever array of omnic sensors Zenyatta possessed rested on him.

To their credit, no one rushed him, even when it took Hanzo an eternity to speak. Outside of their confrontation in Hanamura, Hanzo had not had a real conversation in several years. Whether extracting information or coffee from another being, those were simply paths to be followed, and did not require much investment or insight.

“I do not have… wants,” Hanzo shook his head slowly, the idea completely alien. He ignored the soft dismayed _‘anija’_ that escaped the thing that had taken the place of his brother. “I am here… for Genji’s sake. I owe… an immeasurable debt. My life… is an extension of his will. If my brother speaks for me, it is because my life is no longer my own. It belongs to him.”

Genji jumped to his feet, hands splayed on the conference table, hissing in Japanese, «Hanzo, that was _not_ what I intended for you, for us, with my invitation!»

Hanzo ignored the admonishment, but he did not miss the exchanges of glances that filtered through the room. He couldn’t interpret even half of them.

“Not to be devil’s advocate or anything, but since I’m here, I can give you my opinion.” The man with the claw arm stared into the bottom of his mug as if it contained all the answers to the situation at hand, “We’ve got an E54 on base already—”

“Which _you_ brought here,” the woman in the Helix armor sounded split between incredulous and irritated.

“Listen, Amari, if a machine can change, why not a man with a heart of flesh and blood? Anyways, I was never one for wasting good tools, when they were at hand. Plenty of us in this room have experience in making terrible mistakes with terrible consequences that take years to fix, to boot. _Some of us_ even have experience in running from those mistakes,” the squat man glared his single eye towards the man in the visor. “Would be a bit hypocritical not to take him on just for that.”

There was a tense silence that fell, and once again every eye in the room fell on Hanzo. He ignored the cyborg body still standing by his shoulder.

“So, uh,” Winston cleared his throat again, “just to be clear, you… you’re on board with Genji’s… plan of joining us as an agent?”

“My life is his do with as he pleases.”

«Stop _saying_ that! You are a free man, you came here of your own volition, did you not!? I did not drag you here—you _refused_ me in July!»

Hanzo finally looked up at his brother. Something like satisfaction pulling the corner of his mouth up. «You cannot escape the consequences of your actions any more than I can escape the consequences of mine.» This was a conversation he had a map for. A conversation he had envisioned many times between the haze of now and the revelation that his brother was still alive.

There was a hiss, and Hanzo realized it was from a series of tiny, pinhole-sized vents along his brother’s neck. «I _forgave_ you! You are _not_ my prisoner!»

The satisfaction at seeing Genji— _hearing_ Genji—angry left Hanzo, and there was a cold fire in his chest. The same righteous fury that had fueled further kinslaying for the better part of a decade. «Your forgiveness does not erase my actions. You do _not_ get to decide whether I am absolved of my crimes!» He suddenly realized that Genji was taller as he got to his feet. He had to look up to meet his eyes with the green stripe across his visor. Confusion cut through his anger for only a moment before he snarled at the faint reflection he could catch on the mask covering Genji’s face.

Genji reached out and clutched his _gi_ at the shoulder. For a fraction of a second, Hanzo felt relief that his brother had placed hands on him in anger, that this cosmic mistake would be corrected in the next instant—but Genji only bellowed at him instead, and Hanzo felt like he had missed a step on a stairwell. And he was even more furious.

«I am the _only_ person on this _planet_ qualified to say if you can be forgiven, and I _do_ say so! If _I_ have forgiven you, then you have no excuse _not_ to!»

Hanzo couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face, «Naive as ever. Pretty words do not erase ugly actions.»

«You—!»

“Patience, my student,” the omnic’s cool tones seemed to draw Genji out of his agitated state, and Hanzo saw tension drop from the man’s synthetic shoulders. He heard more hissing from the tiny vents, and there was absolute silence.

“Apologies,” Genji murmured. “My brother and I… disagree on the terms of my… invitation, but I hope he may be allowed to stay.” The cold, self-righteous fury left Hanzo at seeing the defeated posture that his brother carried. He sat heavily in the chair once more, utterly exhausted.

“His conduct just now is not exactly a ringing endorsement of your judgment, Genji.” Amari glared at both of them again.

“It doesn’t, but at least it shows he’s actually alive and not some brainwashed, programmed plant from the likes of Talon.” The man in the visor let out a quiet _hm._ “You may not like it, but his reasons work for me,” the visor said with a shrug. “If he acts up later, we’ll deal with it then. I think we should discuss terms, don’t you, Winston?”

“Uh, right. We do have a standard on-boarding but… um, given your… situation… perhaps a, um, provisional period might be in order? To see how you integrate with the team... And such.”

“Standard sim requirements, ja? Solo and team?” The claw-handed man seemed the least worried or affected by their argument.

“Mm, yes,” Winston nodded. “We will need to wait on your field certification I think… but we would require certain scores before you could be sent with a strike team. Don’t worry, we’ll go over it all in the onboarding…”

“Therapy,” the doctor cut in sharply.

Hanzo blinked at her and waited for an explanation.

“You need to engage in therapy. Athena, our resident AI has some suitable programs. If you and your brother need joint therapy sessions as well I think that may also prove beneficial, but I think we should put an embargo on _any_ field missions until this man has some sort of… recommendation that his mental and emotional state will not be a hind—”

“Done.”

Dr. Ziegler seemed taken aback by how readily he agreed to her additional terms. “Just like that?”

Hanzo shrugged. These people held all the cards, and he would do whatever was necessary to be deemed fit to fight. To serve the purpose his brother had decided for him. The doctor muttered angrily under her breath in what Hanzo assumed was German.

“I can perform these functions as well,” Zenyatta cut in smoothly. Hanzo eyed the omnic with a wary eye, but he could not protest.

Hanzo spent the next twenty minutes listening to the other people in the room negotiate the terms of his stay, with Genji arbitrating on his behalf. For his part, Hanzo was willing to agree to whatever terms they deemed fit, but Genji drew the line at having a guard on him for the first three weeks. Hanzo suspected that the point Genji made about their lack of manpower had more to do with that concession than anything else.

Before he realized it was over, Hanzo was suddenly holding a reader with a number of handbooks and regulations pre-downloaded onto it, as well as a fob to link to his biometrics to allow him access to some of the more stringently guarded rooms on base. He had the vague sense that he had fast-forwarded through the last hour or so, with only hazy memories of its contents. He was then subjected to the most rigorous physical of his life while his brother waited outside the infirmary.

He said as little as possible to Dr. Ziegler, though not entirely by choice.

“Alright, I can see we are having issues… Athena?”

_ <Yes, Dr. Ziegler?> _

“Can you walk our newest… agent… Through your enrollment process for your therapy programs? I recommend at least weekly, but I leave that up to your discretion.”

_ <Of course Dr. Ziegler.> _

Hanzo blinked as Dr. Ziegler started switching off holoscreens. “You are not… remaining for this part?”

“No. You are still entitled to confidentiality. Athena’s programs for this are given the strictest level of security. They are partitioned and heavily encrypted. She will only maintain as much information as necessary to ensure a continuity of care throughout your enrollment, and I will not be able to access any specifics about the program. Athena will advise me if she thinks you are a risk for self-harm, or at risk to harm others, and give me a general assessment of your progress and field-readiness. Anything else, you must authorize her to disclose to me.  Does that sound satisfactory, Mr. Shimada?”

“Once a week?”

“At least. You might consider daily, to start with,” Angela shrugged. “Oh, and Athena _will_ tell me if you are skipping sessions and not following the treatment plan you lay out together. Anything you do with your brother or Zenyatta will not be tracked or reported by any means, but I strongly urge you to consider taking advantage of doing additional sessions and work with them—especially while Zenyatta is here. My understanding is that he is to eventually return to Nepal. Athena, let me know when you two are done and I’ll send him back to Genji.”

The room was silent for several moments after Dr. Ziegler shut the door behind her.

_ <Greetings, Agent Shimada. My name is Athena. I am an artificial intelligence program designed by Overwatch, but completed by Winston. I perform many functions on base including security and intelligence coordination for missions. I am happy to assist you with your upcoming therapy plan. I refrained from introducing myself earlier, as the meeting you were in seemed… tense. I am glad that Agent Genji was able to convince the others to let you stay. He has seemed… preoccupied with you since his trip to Hanamura this summer.> _

Hanzo wasn’t certain of what to say to any of that, so he said nothing.

_ <I can accept both vocal and text input, Agent Shimada. If you find it too difficult to speak about certain topics, I can switch seamlessly between the inputs.> _

Hanzo nodded again.

_ <I can also deliver these programs and instructions in Japanese or English, and again I can switch between the two seamlessly. Please advise if you have a preference. If you do not, please know that I will respond in whatever language you last gave me a command with. I know fifty other languages, so do not feel constrained to those two choices.> _

Hanzo gave a half shrug.

_ <Let us begin with some assessments so that I know which programs will best serve you: what is your goal with these therapy programs> _

Hanzo snorted, “It is mandatory.”

_ <Understood. What is the goal for this mandatory therapy?> _

He looked at the walls, the entire day feeling incredibly surreal. “Does it truly matter?”

_ <It does, Agent Shimada.> _

“I need to be field certified.”

_ <What are your areas of concern?> _

He blinked several times. Though synthetic, Athena’s voice radiated true concern. A masterful charade. “That I will not be allowed to participate in field missions until I complete some degree of therapy.”

_ <These are work specific goals, which are helpful and informative, but I do advise you, Agent Shimada, to think of what your personal goals are for these sessions. For example: coping with symptoms of anxiety or acquiring new anger management techniques.> _

Hanzo summoned up a keyboard for his next answer. _Listen computer, Athena. I am doing this because it is required, not because it will help. If this is how I prove I will not be a liability, then so be it, but let us not pretend that this is anything more than an obligation. We are not friends._

_ <Of course, Agent Shimada, but you may find these sessions to be beneficial nonetheless. Let us start, then, with some testing to get a baseline of where some of your symptoms are. I advise you, Agent Shimada, that I do have behavioral analysis capabilities, and willful misrepresentation of the truth can be construed as non-compliance or non-cooperation with your treatment.> _

He frowned, staring up at the ceiling for no particular reason, other than that is where the speakers broadcasting Athena’s voice seemed to be coming from. _Meaning you will tell Dr. Ziegler I am being non-complicit if I lie on these assessments?_

The synthetic voice sounded far too amused for Hanzo’s liking as it answered. _ <Correct, Agent Shimada. So do take this seriously, if you wish to be cleared for field work in the future.> _

Hanzo sighed, and he settled into the uncomfortable chair in the examination room and considered the first of over a hundred humiliating questions Athena had ready for him.

\----

«Was inviting him a mistake?» It was about the thirtieth time that Genji had asked the question of Zenyatta, while pacing the infirmary’s waiting area.

«Time will tell, my student. Do you feel your gesture of forgiveness was wasted?»

«It seems like it may have been. Did you _hear_ him? Talking about… debt and how I _own_ him. That’s the _last_ thing I wanted from him!»

«It is a great adjustment, I imagine, to find that the brother you thought was dead for so many years to, in fact, be alive.»

Genji sighed, still pacing, «I _know._ »

«You yourself struggled with the situation for many years, and you had the benefit of knowing your side of the story.»

«I know.»

«You may be asking too much for him to forgive himself, if he has spent this time in grief and punishment.»

_«I know!»_ Genji sighed, and pivoted on the spot to pace back again, «I just thought… I thought maybe he’d have some kind of hope for us… I don’t even know if he’s _interested_ in rebuilding a relationship at this point.» There was an ache in Genji’s chest, a deep longing that seemed sharper now that his brother was so close, yet so out of reach. «I miss my brother. He was mourning me, honoring me, I thought that perhaps that meant he _missed_ me as well. Now I am here, back from the dead, and we are… this.»

«I think you may have answered your own question.»

«Which question?» Genji paused, mid-pace.

«Whether this was a mistake.» Zenyatta folded his hands in his lap.

«I didn’t notice. What was my answer?» Genji laughed a little. Sometimes he still found Zenyatta’s methods irritating, but his mind was too full of possibility, hope, and dread to find time to be vexed by the methods that had served him so well.

«That you were dead. That he mourned you. Honored you.»

«That’s not an ans-» Genji paused, well-aware of what the response to that would be. «That has nothing to do with whether this was a mistake.»

«You have the benefit of knowing you survived that night, Genji. Hanzo has thought you dead for ten years.»

«But he knows I’m alive _now!_ He should be happy about that!»

«Should he?» Zenyatta’s words stopped Genji in his tracks.

_Oh._

«I suppose… it would be… a bit of a shock.» He had mouthed the words of understanding, but Genji hadn’t actually taken the time to consider the truth behind the words.

«Genji, I think I would handle finding out that Master Mondatta came back to life with as much grace as your brother has upon learning you survived.»

Genji stared at his feet, humbled by Zenyatta’s ability to force him to reconsider his perspective. It was still impressive—and indicative of how much he still had to learn.

«You assume your brother is ready to heal. That he will be able to take the same journey that you took, in less time than you.»

«I did not mean to assume anything.» He couldn’t help but feel like he had disappointed Zenyatta somehow.

«You were hopeful.» Zenyatta, at least, did not sound disappointed. He was patient, as ever. «But you must allow Hanzo his time to heal. You cannot accelerate it on his behalf. It must be natural, or you will have nothing to repair.»

«I know… I know… don’t push.» Genji took in a steadying breath. «I suppose I let myself get a little too excited by Hanzo showing up here, after thinking he wouldn’t come for so long.»

«He is lost and needs to find himself again. I sense much turmoil in him.»

«So what should I do?» Genji counted the tiles on the ceiling, staying rooted to the spot in an attempt to create a facsimile of patience.

«I think it would be wise for you two to take some time to yourselves. Help Hanzo get settled in. Normally I would suggest discussing the terms of his stay, but that seems like perhaps that it would be wise to delay that conversation for the time being.»

«Oh, that’s a good idea! You and I can get him settled—»

«What part of _‘you two should take some time to yourselves’_ implies my presence?» Zenyatta pointedly asked.

Genji ripped his gaze from the ceiling to gape at his teacher and friend. «Wh-you mean… I had assumed you would… Master… Do you truly think I am ready?»

«You have already been alone with your brother. On a cosmic scale, this is no different from your reunion in Hanamura.»

«Th-that may be true, but this is… you would truly make me do this without you?» The reminder was less than comforting, even if it was true.

«That is generally the definition of _by yourself._ » Genji could hear the amusement in Zenyatta’s voice synthesizers.

«This is serious!»

«Of course it is,» Zenyatta agreed smoothly, «that is why you need to take this step on your own. Without the influence of others. Hanzo does not need to see himself as an outsider with everyone else on ‘your side’ if you truly wish to reconcile with him.»

«I… hate it when you are right.» Genji sighed deeply.

«Surely you had envisioned the possibility of having a private conversation with Hanzo, if he had taken your invitation in July.»

«That is entirely besides the point! He’s acting so… well you saw!» Genji huffed out a sigh and rested his chin in his carbon-fiber palm. «Master… what if I make a mistake? What if I say the wrong thing, and you are not there to help me repair the damage?»

«Do not worry, my student. I am sure you will make many mistakes. As will your brother, but they are yours to make and learn from.»

Genji hissed a sigh through his teeth that transformed into static in the air. «Master, please-»

Zenyatta’s laughter always made Genji think of an electric bell. Sweet and synthetic. «Is it not the truth?»

«The truth does not feel particularly freeing today.» Genji clasped his hands behind his back and resumed pacing.

«It will not be easy, Genji. I am sorry for that, but Hanzo has arrived. That in and of itself is a good sign, even if he is not ready to understand everything right away.»

«You’re right… he’s here. He’s _here._ » Genji stopped pacing again, suddenly struck by the weight of it. _This is real._ «I don’t think I realized how much work this would really be when I extended my invitation.»

«A difficult undertaking does not necessarily mean it is unworthy, nor does it being difficult mean it is destined for failure.»

«…Yes. I know. I just hope… I just hope Hanzo is willing to undertake it with me.» Genji chewed at the inside of his lip.

He stopped his pacing when he heard Zenyatta’s hand make contact with his shoulder. «It does not have to be today. For now, just try to enjoy his company.» Zenyatta let his hand slide down Genji’s arm where he gently grasped Genji’s hand until he felt the feedback of pressure built into his prosthesis. Zenyatta gave an encouraging nod, and then his master hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose I will go find Dr. Ziegler; I am certain she will not mind keeping me company.”

“Sorry,” Genji shrugged helplessly. “You could still join us and avoid being… observed constantly.”

“I shall consider the offer again, my student.”

The sound of quiet footsteps announced Hanzo’s presence. Uneasy silence ruled again.

Genji looked at Zenyatta for guidance before turning to Hanzo once again, «Would you like me to show you around the watch point, Hanzo?»

His brother shrugged, and Genji bit his lip, containing the urge to yell at Hanzo to elicit _some_ sort of reaction out of him. «Alright, come with me. We’ve set your belongings in storage for now. We can gather them later.»

«My bows?»

«They are safe, along with your other belongings.»

Hanzo nodded slowly. Genji realized after a few moments of blank staring, that Hanzo was not going to speak. He was standing there. Waiting for input, like a computer program.

«Let’s show you around. If you ever get lost, you can ask Athena for assistance. She can communicate with us almost everywhere on base, and I always have my communicator on me. I can assign you a private channel.» Genji shot Zenyatta another, desperate glance but his master’s face was even more inscrutable than usual.

Hanzo seemed to be wearing a mask just as steely, and Genji let out a quiet sigh and started walking. He looked over his shoulder, every few steps.

Every time he looked back, his brother was still there, like a shadow.

Hanzo was silent, and Genji could only pray that the man was absorbing the information being given to him. Even the practice range and the simulation rooms did nothing to provoke even the slightest hint of interest from Hanzo. His brother followed him when he walked, utterly silent, and Genji felt like he was being followed by some previously undefined _yokai._ An offspring of _Betobeto-san_ and the _okuri-inu,_ perhaps. Genji realized a moment later he was attempting to come up with a name and supernatural rules for his brother of flesh and blood, and he was less amused with his overactive imagination.

«Let’s go outside for now, it’s not too hot at this time of year.» Maybe the ocean and the sky would do Hanzo some good. His brother had certainly been under the microscope for a great deal of the afternoon. «Have you been getting enough fresh air?» _Reduced to talking about the weather with my own brother._

Hanzo made a soft noise. The only acknowledgment or attempt at an exchange of words since the man had ascertained the status of his weapons.

«You will like Gibraltar, I think. It is warm most of the year, though it gets quite hot during summer. There are fantastic storms as well… do you still like storms?»

Another noise, somewhat agreeable, though Genji couldn’t be sure. He gave up on the idea of conversation for the moment, as he opened a door leading to the vast tarmac that used to bustle with aerial traffic and activity. The most aerial activity these days was the occasional flight out on the Orca and the unwelcome encroachment of wildlife. They’d gotten much better at fending off the latter. Genji led Hanzo over towards one of the watch towers, where there were some incredible views of the ocean and sky. The smell of the ocean was strong enough that Genji could detect it through the filters of his mask. Perhaps it would reach through Hanzo’s stupor in the same way. Genji felt some sense of relief as he saw another person beyond the watch tower. A familiar form, at that. _An introduction hardly counts against our time together,_ Genji rationalized to the part of his brain insisting that this was precisely not what his master had intended. _I cannot be expected to hide my brother from plain sight. Surely that would be just as bad._

Genji waited until they were a bit closer before he shouted McCree’s name with a wave. The American turned, and settled against the railing on his elbows. He crossed the distance further and waited for his shadow to catch up with him.

No one said anything, but McCree did have the decency to raise a questioning eyebrow at him.

“McCree. Please meet my brother.”

\----

_Easy on the eyes._ Jesse’s second thought upon seeing Hanzo Shimada in the flesh for the first time was: _didn’t think he’d actually show._

“Shimada Hanzo, at your service,” the man’s voice was barely there. Like a ghost.

“Howdy,” McCree tipped his hat reflexively—trying to set aside the surreal feeling of finally speaking with a man he had only heard about in the third person through intelligence reports and Genji’s raw recollections. “Gotta admit, wasn’t expectin’ you’d show up. Took you awhile to answer Genji’s invitation,”

“I was… detained.”

“Huh. May I ask doin’ what?”

“No.” _Welp. That answers that, I guess._

“Alrighty.” Something felt _off_ about this conversation. McCree couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It reminded him of some of the conversations he’d had with Genji, back when Genji was using some of his more recreational, ill-advised diversions in the form of various drugs. But Hanzo wasn’t showing any signs of being doped up. Wasn’t sweaty, his pupils weren’t blown. Hell, the man didn’t even smell like liquor, despite the fact that he had a gourd on his hip so… no. There was definitely something wrong, though. McCree filed that thought away for later. “Well, welcome to the club, I guess.” Hanzo said nothing. “You shake hands or…?” McCree tried after another moment. Hanzo blinked at him, like he didn’t understand. “Alright. Take that as a no.” McCree should have figured a man like Hanzo Shimada wouldn’t go for a handshake.

He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

Hanzo gave the ghost of a bow, “I look forward to working with you.” The words were flat, and there was a deadness behind Hanzo’s gray eyes that suggested to McCree that this conversation was being performed by rote.

“Yeah, likewise,” McCree shot a speculative look towards Genji. _What’s his deal?_ He flicked his eyes back to Hanzo for emphasis.

“Thank you for having me,” the elder Shimada gave another suggestion of a bow. Genji shrugged helplessly, and gave Jesse a discreet _keep going_ sort of motion with his hand. McCree wasn’t sure what to make of seeing Genji _flustered._

“Well, the more the merrier. You get settled into your new digs yet?”

Hanzo gave him a slow, owlish blink.

“McCree, please have mercy on my brother. He is going through a lot, try to be understanding of this and speak proper English.”

McCree chuckled, but his laughter died when he realized that Genji wasn’t taking the piss out of him. Well, he _was,_ but he was also being serious. He could tell by how still Genji was, and how rigid his shoulders were.

And how intently Genji’s visor was fixed on him.

“Sorry. You got a room picked out?” He tried again.

“No.” Jesse wasn’t surprised by the low, monosyllabic answer. He started fishing out a cigarillo.

“I think it might be best if you stay with me the first couple nights, brother,” Genji slowly reached for Hanzo’s upper arm, but the man darted back, lightning fast with a snarl.

_“No!”_

The cigarillo paused halfway in its journey to Jesse’s mouth, his brows lifted. _So, still got a quick step under all that doom and gloom._ Genji’s pulled his hand back, pulling it up in a non-threatening gesture.

“Anija, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to be by yourself right now—”

“No,” the word came out as a low growl that Jesse could almost feel in his toes. Hanzo crossed his arms and shifted another half step away from his brother.

McCree caught the way Genji turned his head towards him before looking back at Hanzo.

“Anija, I would feel better if you had someone to help you acclimate—”

“No.” McCree smothered a grin into the heel of his glove. _Like a fucking toddler._ It was an unkind and unfair thought, but it’d been a long time since anything had entertained Jesse even half as much. He cleared his throat as soon as he cleared the grin from his mug.

“Think yer brother has expressed his opinion there, Genji.” McCree could read the betrayal in the sharp turn of Genji’s head as easily as if he wasn’t wearing a visor.

“McCree!”

He shrugged, “Look, how about a compromise?” He glanced over at Hanzo, still not entirely certain that the other Shimada hadn’t checked out of the conversation entirely. “There’s some empty rooms near mine. How ‘bout your brother—” Jesse suddenly realized he’d have to start differentiating the two in conversation from now on, “Hanzo—sets up shop in one of those nearby rooms? He can sleep by himself, have some time to himself, but I’ll be in the neighborhood for him to holler at if he needs anything. And make sure that he eats. Don’t need another Satya on our hands. Rather not make that mistake more than once.”

Hanzo didn’t say _yes,_ but he also didn’t shout _no_ either, so that was progress at least. He seemed to be… processing.

“Whaddya say Hanzo? Sounds good? Once you get the lay of the land, you can pick out your own permanent di—place to stay.”

Hanzo blinked three times before looking back at Genji, his bout of defiance apparently extinguished. Along with his ability to make a decision.

“That sounds like an acceptable compromise,” McCree could tell that Genji was giving his brother the side eye. They both waited, but Hanzo apparently had nothing further to add to the conversation.

“While I have your ear… McCree.” He unconsciously stood a little taller and shifted his weight to his back foot as Genji suddenly squared his shoulders and stepped into his space.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you encrypt our conversations about… my birthday trip? Everyone else was completely unawares of the fact that I had invited Hanzo!”

McCree crossed his arms, “I always tell Athena to encrypt private conversations after they happen when she hears ‘em. At least I have since I figured I could still use our club’s old codes to do it. Not my fault if other people on base don’t remember that they can ask for those records.” He glanced over at Hanzo, not sure if he should openly discuss Blackwatch in front of the man.

“It was… inconvenient today. You may wish to re-examine this habit of yours.”

McCree ground the end of his cigarillo between his teeth. “Look, _you_ could have told anyone else just as easily—which tells me that deep down you’re _glad_ that nobody knew, because otherwise everybody would have known your intentions and been pestering you the last few months about where your wayward brother has been. Don’t put this on _me,_ just ‘cause I like a bit o’ privacy now and then.”

There was a blast of air that McCree recognized as frustration. He was satisfied, however, when Genji held his tongue.

“Thanks for not pushing me over the railing,” McCree let a dark grin split his face as he pulled a drag from his smoke.

“Don’t give me ideas,” Genji shoved his shoulder without real force or malice behind it. “Seriously though, that’s weird. Cut it out.”

“I’m not gonna argue that it’s weirder than having a super-powerful AI listening into and potentially memorizing every conversation I have within earshot, because it ain’t.”

“Fine, have it your way, you’re going to make people think you are up to something though!”

McCree chuckled quietly, “I’m touched you want every stupid thing I’ve said on record.”

“It would make winning arguments easier, certainly.” Genji crossed his arms.

McCree let his gaze slide off of Genji and back over to his brother—who was staring intently at the ocean. He wondered if he was imagining the purpose in that distant gaze.

“…We’ll see.”

**[October 17, 2072]**

“So what do you think of Genji’s brother joining up?” McCree waved his right hand over the reader leading into the simulation chamber.

“I shouldn’t even be speaking to you,” Pharah shot him an ugly glance that made McCree stop in his tracks. This was a brand of scary that didn’t rely on the ghost of her mother. This was something that was Fareeha’s own. The door hissed shut before either of them entered.

“Aw, what’d I do?”

“You concealed information from us!” Fareeha’s genuine anger gave McCree pause, and he had to recall what she even meant. It clicked a moment later as he recalled his conversation with Genji.

“I concealed information from anyone who might access _Athena_ from the outside. Besides, wasn’t like it was gone forever.” McCree shrugged.

“You are also lucky that he joined us on the last day of Ramadan, _and_ I am feeling less guilty about the possibility of gossip now that it is over.”

“This ain’t gossip,” McCree protested. “Just trying to figure out the newest team member.”

“Uh huh.” Pharah waved her hand over the reader and half-shoved Jesse through the door to the prep room before they were locked out.

“Seriously,” McCree pulled Peacekeeper out of her holster. “Want to know your opinion.”

Pharah was quiet as she ran her systems check on her suit. “Honestly? I’m really fucking pissed that you two decided to do this behind everyone’s backs.” She held up a hand as Jesse opened his mouth. “I’m not saying he might not prove useful, but I’m in charge of security here. I need to know these things. I don’t like that he was able to sneak on base without a hitch either.”

_ <That was my doing, Agent Amari.> _

“Which is _precisely_ why I don’t like it!” Pharah watched the readout hovering above her wrist.

_ <I would never conceal anything truly dangerous, Agent Amari. I made a judgment call that it would be better for all involved if Agent Shimada was the one to introduce the presence of his brother.> _

“I get it,” Fareeha’s jaw was tight, and Jesse could tell that she was looking _through_ the readout. Glaring daggers at him.

“So… you have an opinion on the newest Shimada?”

Pharah closed her eyes and drew in a long breath through her nose. “Damaged goods,” Fareeha finally said, waving away her readout.

McCree sucked in a breath, like he'd been sucker-punched. “Ouch. That’s harsh," he spun Peacekeeper’s barrel to test the action.

“What do you expect me to say? The man said about three words of English out loud, nearly came to blows with Genji, and then stayed absolutely silent the rest of the time. What else am I supposed to think?”

“They fought?” McCree lifted his brows in surprise. Aside from Hanzo’s strange outburst of defiance at setting up shop, he wouldn’t have thought the man had it in him.

Pharah shrugged, “Sure seemed like it. There was yelling. I thought Genji was going to pummel him.”

McCree clicked his tongue against his teeth. _Guess he ain’t at 100% enlightenment, huh?_

Fareeha crossed her arms, “Do you know why else it pisses me off?”

“Uh, no, but please tell me this other reason’s got nothing to do with me. Can’t stand it when you’re mad at me, manita.”

Her jaw moved from side to side. _Shit. It’s got everything to do with me._ “Genji Shimada is the only man my mother ever told me to never be in a room alone with. Out of all the soldiers and assassins she knew—all the people she knew who were capable of killing other people—he was the _only_ one she ever forbade me to be alone with.”

Jesse opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“I know, right? She let me hang out with people in black ops—his _coworkers!_ She trusted me with _you!_ But not Genji. She was so _scary_ about it… Mama’s been gone for over five years now Jesse, and a lot of my memories have faded already… but not that one.” She shivered. Jesse did too.

Ana Amari was a scary lady, when she wanted to be.

“That why you and Genji don’t get along?”

Pharah shrugged, “I’m _professional_ … and I know he’s changed. He isn’t the same man my mother feared, but…”

Jesse gave her a wry grin, “Hey, if it makes you feel better, I _still_ follow some of your mama’s orders, even from beyond the grave.”

McCree felt the same satisfaction of a well-executed mission as Fareeha laughed. “You too? I’m glad it isn’t just me.”

“’Course not. I’m pretty sure she’d come back from the dead and stick me in that empty grave of hers if I piss her off bad enough.” McCree finally loaded Peacekeeper, before putting her back in the holster.

“So, yeah. We’ll see if Shimada 2.0 is better or worse than his brother was, I guess,” Pharah shrugged.

“Well, there’s one way to check his baseline…” Jesse rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hey, Athena, you got any footage of Hanzo doing his sims yet?”

_ <I do. Would you like me to queue the footage, Agent McCree?> _

“Yeah, I would. We still got plenty of time after this to get our program done.” Pharah rolled her eyes and started stretching.

“Lazy,” she accused.

The screen at the terminal immediately outside the door into the simulation chamber proper lit up. Athena’s voice came through the terminal speakers instead of overhead.

_ <Training Simulation Engaged> _

McCree was mighty interested in seeing what Hanzo could do by himself. If Genji was anything to go by, the man would be quite a sight. He stepped up to the terminal, eyeing the screen intently. He wasn’t far off in his estimation. They were similar, but also very different. Much of their underlying form was the same—likely the result of the same upbringing and same tutors and fundamentals, but the brothers had both specialized since then.

Hanzo’s hand to hand combat focused on efficient dispatches or placing distance between himself and his enemies, getting to high ground as soon as possible while expending the least amount of energy. Genji was all about staying relentlessly close range, coming in from blind spots, and striking from the shadows.

At least… that was what McCree thought until Athena played a second simulation, still solo. The man hadn’t been cleared for team practice just yet. They were waiting on Angie and Athena’s recommendation for that one.

Jesse watched some of the footage and replayed it. It was subtle but it was almost like there were two different Hanzos. One of them thoughtful, methodical. Patient. The other was brutal, instinctive. Still quiet, still _…something,_ but it was different. Man left himself more vulnerable, went to different places on the map. McCree couldn’t tell if it was on purpose. It wasn’t like the training bots were programmed to take advantage of any feigned or perceived weakness, but did Hanzo know that?

Would that catch up to him with enemies of flesh and blood and something like half a brain? Jesse pressed his lips together. _Interesting._ Another mystery to file away for later.

“Alright, my curiosity is sated for the moment. Think you can forgive me for ‘siding’ with Genji over yer mom?”

Pharah rolled her eyes, “You will be sorry when I leave you for dead to prioritize the mission during this simulation.”

McCree staggered on the spot, placing his metal hand over his heart.

\----

“So where do you go?”

Hanzo blinked slowly; his senses coming back to him, taking in the cliff and the sea below. He wasn’t aware he had company, but that feeling of lethargy clinging to him erased any signs of surprise. He slowly turned in place, the weight of his body holding him back like an anchor.

McCree didn’t seem to find it an imposition to hold up both ends of the conversation. The cowboy stood easily, thumbs looped on his belt. Ridiculous hat somehow secured against the ocean breeze.

“You been standing there an awful long time. I thought maybe you were… well, anyway. I eventually figured I was wrong, but you were in deep, wherever you went partner.”

Hanzo blinked a few more times, and then slowly turned back to gaze at the sea. If McCree was off-put by his silence or odd behavior, he didn’t show it. Abstractly, Hanzo knew that this was improper behavior, but he was so detached from himself he couldn’t be bothered to be appalled.

There was a sound next to him. Hanzo realized that McCree had dropped himself neatly on the ground beside his feet.

Hanzo supposed it was an invitation, and with debilitating slowness, he knelt to the ground as well.

It surprised him, how sharply he could feel the ground and blades of grass beneath his knees, even through his hakama. A slight breeze prickled through his beard. The sun was warm on his face, even as it was getting low on the horizon.

“How long have you been here?” Hanzo wasn’t blind to how rusty his voice sounded. There were physical books in library archives that were probably less disused.

“Long enough. So, anyplace interesting?”

Hanzo didn’t understand the prompt, and he couldn’t seem to shape his mouth around the words to ask the question—to ask McCree to explain himself.

“Hmm,” McCree rubbed his beard thoughtfully. «Would Japanese be easier right now?»

Hanzo shook his head slowly. McCree could be speaking an alien language at the moment, it mattered little.

“Alright. Not a language barrier thing. Okay. Good to know. Yer pretty lucky it isn’t. My Japanese, uh, ain’t great, to put it mildly. Understand it better than I speak it. I mean, I can get by. Ain’t used it in a while though, little visit to Hanamura excluded. Should practice more with Genji.”

Despite appearances, Hanzo was trying very hard to listen to McCree. He squeezed his fist until he could feel his nails press into his palm. He set his other hand against the dirt, focusing on each individual grain of sand and earth.

Hanzo closed his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose.

_Peace. I do not need your eyes._

There was a slow reluctance as the extra layer of dullness that enveloped his senses pulled away. Hanzo wasn’t sure if his _tatsu_ did this to protect him after he was pulled into one of these spells, or if he was pulled into that faraway place because the dragons were in control. He supposed it didn’t matter that much, in the end. It had gone on long enough that it fed into itself. Like an ouroboros, like the Shimada crest. A self-sustaining and self-consuming fuel; awful and ruinous, sustained decay.

Hanzo wondered if the family crest was a cautionary tale he’d neglected to learn from as a child.

“I don’t understand your question.”

It was a reply too late in the conversation. McCree seemed a little surprised, but he was also happy enough to backtrack.

“Hm? Oh. Just wondering where you were in that head of yours. Sure seemed far away. Somewhere else? Some _when_ else?”

Hanzo shook his head again, slowly, still waking from his stupor. “I do not _go_ anywhere when I am like that. I… am nowhere. Everything feels… far away. Distant. Perhaps it is like sleepwalking.”

“Don’t sound like much fun.”

Hanzo shrugged, the motion taking a surprising amount of effort to coordinate. He realized a moment later than McCree’s tone was one of sympathy. He wasn’t quite present enough to feel annoyed by this stranger’s pity.

Another belated realization fell into place.

“You thought I was going to jump.” It wasn't a question. “That is why you stayed.”

To his credit, McCree didn’t deny this. He shrugged, as though bested by a teacher. “The thought had briefly crossed my mind. Figured Genji’d probably be a mite disappointed if his brother finally shows up and then kicks it before you two get anything settled.”

Hanzo stared at the man, his focus not quite settling on him properly; he was more looking through McCree. He could feel the deep furrow between his brows.

“That was a joke,” McCree explained, ever helpful. Hanzo did not feel his brows unfurrow with the clarification.

“It was unnecessary. I came here to look at the sea.”

“You sure did! Did a good job of it too I reckon, what with the thousand-yard stare. But nah, I had you pegged as safe as while back. Stayed anyway.”

“Why?”

McCree shrugged, and Hanzo envied him the ease of it, “Cause I wanted to.”

“I am not good company.” Hanzo wasn't sure if this was a warning or a promise.

He was more perplexed than ever when McCree started laughing, arms wrapped around his belly. “Yer a picnic compared to your brother, back in the day.”

Hanzo didn’t know how to even begin to respond to that comment, so he let the remark stand. He would have to suffer the way his stomach tied itself into knots and his skin seemed to shrink.

“You eaten supper yet? Getting close to that time.”

Had he?

“How long have I been here?”

“Not sure. Could check the security feed if you're curious, I reckon.”

Hanzo made the Herculean effort to shake his head. It was more moving his shoulders from side to side.

“I don't follow that one. You haven't eaten or you don't care about the footage?”

“Eaten.”

“Alright. Easy enough to fix. You hungry?”

Hanzo pondered the question and tried to focus his senses on his stomach. His abdomen felt taut, and there was a low burn there. Like a candle about to go out. “Maybe,” he declared; his mouth full of invisible marbles.

“Tell you what, let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make a lil something, and you can try just a bit. Some food on yer tongue’ll let you know if you’re hungry or not soon enough. You ever had chorizo? Stuff they have here is a little different than what we got back where I’m from, but it’s still pretty good.” Hanzo twitched uncomfortably as McCree sidled up beside him. “Nothing better than real, Mexican-style chorizo though. Don’t care if we’re in the cradle where chorizo was truly born or whatever, them’s the facts.” He eyed the man’s hand with suspicion as he held it out, but it never made contact with him. He could almost feel it hovering at his back, and Hanzo shuffled forward a half-step, and then another—not taking in the slightest detail about whatever this _chorizo_ was and why Spanish chorizo and Mexican chorizo were different.

All he could focus on was the fact that if he were touched, he would probably lash out and punch McCree in the throat, and that was the last thing he needed in his quest to do… whatever it was he was going to do here. His lethargy vanished in the wake of his agitation and desire to refrain from human contact, and he shuffled with something resembling normalcy—if only to escape the presence of McCree’s hand.

About halfway across the abandoned airfield, Hanzo realized he’d been outmaneuvered by a man in a pair of cowboy boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from [Roma Fade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iMwRlpbkBY) by Andrew Bird. Big thank you to Schisty in the Target Practice discord for giving this a beta before going up!
> 
> Also yay! Now that my Big Bang fic is done I have time for other things again! Whoo! I'm still stoked that I got it all done and up, but I'm happy that I'm not tied up with that deadline anymore lol.
> 
> Also Hanzo is here whoop whoop! He will continue to grow and have... issues... but it's fine. It's totally fine. ~~Jesse can put his attitude towards therapy back into the toilet he fished it out of, however.~~

**Author's Note:**

> You can pester me on tumblr anytime @ [Liquidlyrium](http://liquidlyrium.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you're on pillowfort you can also follow me [there!](https://www.pillowfort.io/Liquidlyrium) (I post WIP excerpts there)
> 
> If you want to creep on my writing progress for various stories you can also do that [here](https://www.mywriteclub.com/beta/writers/Lyrium)


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